The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins a tale of the conquest of Mexico |
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 | The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins |  |
7. BOOK SEVENTH.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE HEART CAN BE WISER THAN THE HEAD.
I WILL now ask the reader to make a note of the passage
of a fortnight. By so doing he will find himself close
upon the 24th of June, — another memorable day in the
drama of the conquest.
'Tzin Guatamo, as is already known, had many times
proven himself a warrior after the manner of his country,
and, in consequence, had long been the idol of the army;
now he gave token of a ruling faculty which brought the
whole people to his feet; so that in Tenochtitlan, for the
first time in her history, were seen a sceptre unknown to the
law and a royalty not the king's.
He ruled in the valley everywhere, except in the palace
of Axaya'; and around that he built works, and set guards,
and so contrived that nothing passed in or out without his
permission. His policy was to wait patiently, and in the
mean time organize the nation for war; and the nation obeyed
him, seeing that in obedience there was life; such, moreover,
was the will of Huitzil'.
As may be thought, the Christians thus pent up fared
illy; in fact, they would have suffered before the fortnight
was gone but for the king, who stinted himself and his
household in order to divide with his keepers the supplies
sent in for his use.
In the estimation of the people of the empire, it was
them there; but the success did not deceive the 'tzin: in his
view, that achievement was not the victory, but only the
beginning of the war; every hour he had news of Malinche,
the real antagonist, who had the mind, the will, and the hand
of a warrior, and was coming with another army, more
numerous, if not braver, than the first one. In pure, strong
love there is an element akin to the power of prophecy, —
something that gives the spirit eyes to see what is to happen.
Such an inspiration quickened the 'tzin, and told him
Anahuac was not saved, though she should be: if not, the
conquerors should take an empty prize; he would leave them
nothing, — so he swore, — neither gods, gold, slaves, city, nor
people. He set about the great idea by inviting the New
World — I speak as a Spaniard — to take part in the struggle.
And he was answered. To the beloved city, turned into a
rendezvous for the purpose, flocked the fighting vassals of the
great caciques, the men of the cities, and their dependencies,
the calpulli, or tribes of the loyal provinces, and, mixed with
them, wild-eyed bands from the Unknown, the wildernesses,
— in all, a multitude such as had never been seen in the valley.
At the altars he had but one prayer, “Time, time, O
gods of my fathers! Give me time!” He knew the difference
between a man and a soldier, and that, likewise, between
a multitude and an army. As he used the word, time
meant organization and discipline. He not only prayed, he
worked; and into his work, as into his prayers, he poured
all his soul.
The organization was simple: first, a company of three or
four hundred men; next an army of thirty or forty companies,
— a system which allowed the preservation of the
identity of tribes and cities. The companies of Cholula, for
example, were separate from those of Tezcuco; while the
Acolmanes marched and fought side by side with the Coatopecs,
gave him a number of armies, and he divided them, — one to
raise supplies, another to bring the supplies to the depots,
a third to prepare material of war; the fourth was the active
or fighting division; and each was subject to take the
place of the other. To the labor of so many hands, systematized
and industriously exerted, though for a fortnight,
almost everything is possible. One strong will, absolutely
operative over thousands, is nearer omnipotency than anything
else human.
The climate of the valley, milder and more equable than
that of Naples, permits the bivouac in all seasons. The
sierra west of the capital, and bending around it like a half-drawn
bow, is marked on its interior, or city side by verdant
and watered vales; these were seized; and the bordering
cliffs, which theretofore had shaded the toiling husbandman,
or been themselves the scenes of the hunter's daring, now
hid the hosts of New World's men, in the bivouac, biding
the day of battle.
War, good reader, never touches anything and leaves it as
it was. And the daughter of the lake, fair Tenochtitlan,
was no exception to the law. The young master, having reduced
the question of strategy to the formula, — a street or
a plain, chose the street, and thereby dedicated the city to
all of ruin or horror the destroyer could bring. Not long,
therefore, until its presence could have been detected by the
idlest glance: the streets were given up to the warriors; the
palaces were deserted by families; houses conveniently
situated for the use were turned into forts; the shrubbery
garnishing roofs that dominated the main streets concealed
heaps of stones made ready for the hand; the bridges were
taken up, or put in condition to be raised; the canoes on the
lakes were multiplied, and converted to the public service;
the great markets were suspended; even the sacred temples
hither and thither, never idle, observed the change, he would
sigh, but say to himself, “'T is well. If we win, we can
restore; if we lose, — if we lose, — then, to the strangers,
waste, to the waters, welcome!”
And up and down, from city to bivouac and back again,
passed the minstrels, singing of war, and the pabas, proclaiming
the oracles and divine promises; and the services
in the temples were unintermitted; those in the teocallis
were especially grand; the smoke from its turrets overhung
the city, and at night the fire of Huitzil', a new star reddening
in the sky, was seen from the remotest hamlet in the
valley. The 'tzin had faith in moral effects, and he studied
them, and was successful. The army soon came to have,
like himself, but one prayer, — “Set us before the strangers;
let us fight!”
And the time they prayed for was come.
The night of the 23d of June was pleasant as night can be
in that region of pleasant nights. The sky was clear and
starry. The breeze abroad brought coolness to outliers on
the housetops, without threshing the lake to the disturbance
of its voyageurs.
Up in the northeastern part of the little sea lay a chinampa
at anchor. Over its landing, at the very edge of the
water, burned a flambeau of resinous pine. Two canoes,
richly decorated, swung at the mooring. The path from the
landing to the pavilion was carpeted, and lighted by lamps
pendent in the adjoining shrubbery. In the canoes the
slaves lay at rest, talking idly, and in low voices crooning
Indian songs. Close by the landing, on a bench, over which
swayed the leaves of an immense banana-tree, rested a
couple of warriors, silent, and nodding, as it were, to the
nodding leaves. From the rising to the setting of the day's
Sierra in which bivouacked the hope of Anahuac, had they
travelled, — Hualpa and Io'. One familiar with the streets
in these later days, at sight of them would have said,
“Beware! the 'tzin is hereaway.” The three were almost
as one, — so had their friendship grown. The pavilion, a
circular canopy, spread like a Bedouin's tent, was brightly
lighted; and there, in fact, was the 'tzin, with Tula and
Yeteve, the priestess.
Once before, I believe, I described this pavilion; and now
I know the imagination of the reader will give the floating
garden richer colors than lie within compass of my pen;
will surround it with light, and with air delicious with the
freshness of the lake and the exhalations of the flowers;
will hover about the guardian palm and willow trees, the
latter with boughs lithe and swinging, and leaves long and
fine as a woman's locks; will linger about the retreat, I
say, and, in thought of its fitness for meeting of lovers, admit
the poetry and respect the passion of the noble Aztec.
Within, the furniture was as formerly; there were yet the
carven stools, the table with its bowl-like top, now a mass
of flowers, a couch draped with brilliant plumage, the floor
covered with matting of woven grasses, the hammock, and
the bird-cage, — all as when we first saw them. Nenetzin
was absent, and alas! might never come again.
And if we enter now, we shall find the 'tzin standing a
little apart from Tula, who is in the hammock, with Yeteve
by her side. On a stool at his feet is a waiter of ebony,
with spoons of tortoise-shell, and some xicaras, or cups, used
for chocolate.
Their faces are grave and earnest.
“And Malinche?” asked Tula, as if pursuing a question.
“The gods have given me time; I am ready for him,”
he replied.
“When will he come?”
“Yesterday, about noon, he set out from Tezcuco, by way
of the shore of the lake; to-night he lodges in Iztapalapan;
to-morrow, marching by the old causeway, he will re-enter
the city.”
“Poor, poor country!” she said, after a long silence.
The words touched him, and he replied, in a low voice,
“You have a good heart, O Tula, — a good heart and true.
Your words were what I repeat every hour in the day. You
were seeing what I see all the time —”
“The battle!” she said, shuddering.
“Yes. I wish it could be avoided; its conditions are
such that against the advantage of arms I can only oppose
the advantage of numbers; so that the dearest of all things
will be the cheapest. I must take no account of lives. I
have seen the streets run with blood already, and now, —
Enough! we must do what the gods decree. Yet the
slaughter shall not be, as heretofore, on one side alone.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“You know the custom of our people to take prisoners
rather than kill in battle. As against the Tlascalans and
tribes, that was well enough; but new conditions require
new laws, and my order now is, Save nothing but the
arms and armor of the strangers. Life for life as against
Malinche! And I could conquer him, but —”
He stopped, and their glances met, — his full of fire, hers
sad and thoughtful.
“Ah, Tula! your woman's soul prompts you already of
whom I would speak, — the king.”
“Spare me,” she said, covering her face with her hands.
“I am his child; I love him yet.”
“So I know,” he replied; “and I would not have you do
else. The love is proof of fitness to be loved. Nature cannot
be silenced. He is not as near to me as to you; yet I feel the
he is a part of my youth. For that matter, who does not love
him? He has charmed the strangers; even the guards at
his chamber-door have been known to weep at sight of his
sorrow. And the heroes who so lately died before his prison-gates,
did not they love him? And those who will die to-morrow
and the next day, what else may be said of them?
In arms here, see the children of the valley. What seek
they? In their eyes, he is Anahuac. And yet —”
He paused again; her hands had fallen; her cheeks glistened
with tears.
“If I may not speak plainly now, I may not ever.
Strengthen yourself to hear me, and hear me pitifully. To
begin, you know that I have been using the king's power
without his permission, — that, I say, you know, and have
forgiven, because the usurpation was not of choice but necessity,
and to save the empire; but you will hear now, for the
first time probably, that I could have been king in fact.”
Her gaze became intent, and she listened breathlessly.
“Three times,” he continued, “three times have the caciques,
for themselves and the army, offered me the crown.
The last time, they were accompanied by the electors,[1] and
deputations from all the great cities.”
“And you refused,” she said, confidently.
“Yes. I will not deny the offer was tempting, — that for
the truth. I thought of it often; and at such times came
revenge, and told me I had been wronged, and ambition,
whispering of glory, and, with ready subtlety, making acceptance
appear a duty. But, Tula, you prevailed; your love
was dearer to me than the crown. For your sake, I refused
the overture. You never said so, — there was no need of
the saying, — yet I knew you could never be queen while
your father lived.”
Not often has a woman heard such a story of love, or
been given such proofs of devotion; her face mantled, and
she dropped her gaze, saying, —
“Better to be so loved than to be queen. If not here, O
'tzin, look for reward in the Sun. Surely, the gods take
note of such things!”
“Your approval is my full reward,” he replied. “But hear
me further. What I have said was easy to say; that which
I go to now is hard, and requires all my will; for the utterance
may forfeit not merely the blessing just given me, but
your love, — more precious, as I have shown, than the crown.
You were in the palace the day the king appeared and
bade the people home. The strangers were in my hand at
the time. O, a glad time, — so long had we toiled, so many
had died! Then he came, and snatched away our triumph.
I have not forgotten, I never can forget the disappointment.
In all the labor of the preparation since, I have
seen the scene, sometimes as a threat, sometimes as a warning,
always a recurring dream whose dreaming leaves me less
resolved in the course I am running. Continually I find
myself saying to myself, `The work is all in vain; what
has been will be again; while he lives, you cannot win.'
O Tula, such influence was bad enough of itself. Hear now
how the gods came in to direct me. Last night I was at
the altar of Huitzil', praying, when the teotuctli appeared,
and said, `'Tzin Guatamo, pray you for your country?' `For
country and king,' I answered. He laid his hand upon my
shoulder, `If you seek the will of the god with intent to do
what he imposes, hear then: The king is the shield of the
strangers; they are safe while he lives; and if he lives, Anahuac
dies. Let him who leads choose between them. So the
god says. Consider!' He was gone before I could answer.
Since that I have been like one moving in a cloud, seeing
nothing clearly, and the duty least of all. When I should be
the king lives, the empire dies: if it is to die, why the battle,
and its sacrifices? This night have I in which to choose;
to-morrow, Malinche and action! Help me, O Tula, help me
to do right! Love of country, of king, and of me, — you
have them all. Speak.”
And she answered him, —
“I may not doubt that you love me; you have told me
so many times, but never as to-night. I thank you, O 'tzin!
Your duties are heavy. I do not wonder that you bend under
them. I might say they are yours by gift of the gods, and
not to be divided with another, not even with me; but I will
give you love for love, and, as I hope to share your fortunes,
I will share your trials. I am a woman, without judgment
by which to answer you; from my heart I will answer.”
“From your heart be it, O Tula.”
“Has the king heard the things of which you have
spoken?”
“I cannot say.”
“Does he know you were offered the crown?”
“No; the offer was treason.”
“Ah, poor king, proud father! The love of the people,
that of which you were proudest, is lost. What wretchedness
awaits you!”
She bowed her head, and there was a silence broken only
by her sobs. The grief spent itself; then she said, earnestly,
—
“I know him. He, too, is a lover of Anahuac. More
than once he has exposed himself to death for her. Such
loves age not, nor do they die, except with the hearts they
animate. There was a time — but now — No matter, I
will try. `Let him who leads choose': was not that the
decree, good 'tzin?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Must the choice be made to-night?”
“I may delay until to-morrow.”
“To-morrow; what time?”
“Malinche will pass the causeway in the cool of the
morning; by noon he will have joined his people in the old
palace; the decision must then be made.”
“Can you set me down at the gate before he passes in?”
The 'tzin started. “Of the old palace?” he asked.
“I wish to see the king.”
“For what?”
“To tell him the things you have told me to-night.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
His face clouded with dissatisfaction.
“Yes,” she continued, calmly; “that, as becomes a king,
he may choose which shall live, — himself or Anahuac.”
So she answered the 'tzin's appeal, and the answer was
from her heart; and, seeing of what heroism she dreamed,
his dark eyes glowed with admiration. Yet his reply was
full of hopelessness.
“I give you honor, Tula, — I give you honor for the
thought; but forgive me if I think you beguiled by your
love. There was a time when he was capable of what you
have imagined. Alas! he is changed; he will never choose,
— never!”
She looked at him reproachfully, and said, with a sad
smile, “Such changes are not always of years. Who is he
that to-night, only to-night, driven by a faltering of the
will, which in the king, my father, is called weakness,
brought himself prayerfully to a woman's feet, and begged
her to divide with him a burden imposed upon his conscience
by a decree of the gods? Who is he, indeed?
Study yourself, O 'tzin, and commiserate him, and bethink
you, if he choose not, it will be yours to choose for him.
and —”
She hesitated, and held out her hand, as if to say, “And
I can love you still.”
He caught the meaning of the action, and went to her,
and kissed her forehead tenderly, and said, —
“I see now that the heart can be wiser than the head.
Have your way. I will set you down at the gate, and of
war there shall be neither sign nor sound until you return.”
“Until I return! May be I cannot. Malinche may hold
me prisoner.”
From love to war, — the step was short.
“True,” he said. “The armies will await my signal of
attack, and they must not wait upon uncertainties.”
He arose and paced the floor, and when he paused he
said, firmly, —
“I will set you down at the gate in the early morning,
that you may see your father before Malinche sees him.
And when you speak to him, ask not if I may make the
war: on that I am resolved; but tell him what no
other can, — that I look forward to the time when Malinche,
like the Tonatiah, will bring him from his chamber,
and show him to the people, to distract them again.
And when you have told him that, speak of what the gods
have laid upon me, and then say that I say, `Comes he so,
whether of choice or by force, the dread duty shall be done.
The gods helping me, I will strike for Anahuac.' And if he
ask what I would have him do, answer, A king's duty to
his people, — die that they may live!”
Tula heard him to the end, and buried her face in her
hands, and there was a long silence.
“Poor king! poor father!” she said at last. “For me to
ask him to die! A heavy, heavy burden, O 'tzin!”
“The gods help you!” he replied.
“If Malinche hold me prisoner, how will the answer avail
you?”
“Have you not there two scarfs, — the one green, the other
white?”
“Yes.”
“Take them with you, and from the roof, if your father
resolve not, show the green one. Alas, then, for me! If,
in its stead, you wave the white one, I shall know that he
comes, if so he does, by force, and that” — his voice trembled
— “it is his will Anahuac should live.”
She listened wistfully, and replied, “I understand:
Anahuac saved means Montezuma lost. But doubt him
not, doubt him not; he will remember his glory's day,
and die as he has lived.”
An hour later, and the canoe of the 'tzin passed into one
of the canals of the city. The parting on the chinampa may
be imagined. Love will have its way even in war.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE CONQUEROR ON THE CAUSEWAY AGAIN.
AS predicted by the 'tzin, the Spaniards set out early
next morning — the morning of the 24th of June
— by the causeway from Iztapalapan, already notable in this
story.
At their head rode the Señor Hernan, silent, thoughtful,
and not well pleased; pondering, doubtless, the misconduct
of the adelantado in the old palace to which he was marching,
and the rueful condition it might impose upon the expedition.
The cavaliers next in the order of march, which was that
of battle, rode and talked as men are wont when drawing
nigh the end of a long and toilsome task. This the leader
at length interrupted, —
“Señores, come near. Yonder ye may see the gate of
Xoloc,” he continued, when they were up. “If the heathen
captains think to obstruct our entry, they would do well,
now that our ships lie sunken in the lake, to give us battle
there. Ride we forward to explore what preparations, if any,
they have made.”
So they rode, at quickened pace, arms rattling, spurs jingling,
and found the gate deserted.
“Viva compañeros!” cried Cortes, riding through the
shadow of the battlements. “Give the scabbards their
swords again. There will be no battle; the way to the palace
is open.” And, waiting till the column was at their heels,
he turned to the trumpeters, and shouted, cheerily, “Ola, ye
lazy knaves! Since the march began, ye have not been
heard from. Out now, and blow! Blow as if ye were each
a Roland, with Roland's horn. Blow merrily a triumphal
march, that our brethren in the leaguer ahead may know
deliverance at hand.”
The feeling of the chief spread rapidly; first, to the
cavaliers; then to the ranks, where soon there were shouting
and singing; and simultaneous with the trumpetry, over
the still waters sped the minstrelsy of the Tlascalans. Ere
long they had the answer of the garrison; every gun in
the palace thundered welcome.
Cortes settled in his saddle smiling: he was easy in mind;
the junction with Alvarado was assured; the city and the
king were his, and he could now hold them; nevertheless,
back of his smile there was much thought. True, his enemies
in Spain would halloo spitefully over the doughty
deed he had just done down in Cempoalla. No matter.
with gold, — gold by the caravel, if necessary; and for the
pacification of his most Catholic master, the Emperor, had
he not the New World? And over the schedule of guerdons
sure to follow such a gift to such a master he lingered complacently,
as well he might. Patronage, and titles, and high
employments, and lordly estates danced before his eyes, as
danced the sun's glozing upon the crinkling water.
One thought, however, — only one, — brought him trouble.
The soldiers of Narvaez were new men, ill-disciplined,
footsore, grumbling, discontented, disappointed. He remembered
the roseate pictures by which they had been won
from their leader before the battle was joined. `The
Empire was already in possession; there would be no
fighting; the march would be a promenade through grand
landscapes, and by towns and cities, whose inhabitants
would meet them in processions, loaded with fruits and
flowers, tributes of love and fear,' — so he had told them
through his spokesmen, Olmedo, the priest, and Duero, the
secretary. Nor failed he now to recall the chief inducements
in the argument, — the charms of the heathen capital, and the
easy life there waiting, — a life whose sole vexation would
be apportionment of the lands conquered and the gold gathered.
And the wonderful city, — here it was, placid as
ever; and neither the valley, nor the lake, nor the summering
climate, nor the abundance of which he had spoken,
failed his description; nothing was wanting but the people,
THE PEOPLE! Where were they? He looked at the prize
ahead; gyres of smoke, slowly rising and purpling as they
rose, were all the proofs of life within its walls. He swept
the little sea with angry eyes; in the distance a canoe, stationary,
and with a solitary occupant, and he a spy! And
this was the grand reception promised the retainers of
Narvaez! He struck his mailed thigh with his mailed hand
was moving forward compactly, the new men distinguishable
by the freshness of their apparel and equipments.
“Bien!” he said, with a grim smile and cunning solace,
“Bien! they will fight for life, if not for majesty and me.”
Close by the wall Father Bartolomé overtook him, and,
after giving rein to his mule, and readjusting his hood, said,
gravely, “If the tinkle of my servant's bell disturb not thy
musing, Señor, — I have been through the files, and bring
thee wot of the new men.”
“Welcome, father,” said Cortes, laughing. “I am not an
evil spirit to fly the exorcisement of thy bell, not I; and so
I bid thee welcome. But as for whereof thou comest to
tell, no more, I pray. I know of what the varlets speak.
And as I am a Christian, I blame them not. We promised
them much, and — this is all: fair sky, fair land, strange
city, — and all without people! Rueful enough, I grant;
but, as matter more serious, what say the veterans? Came
they within thy soundings?”
“Thou mayest trust them, Señor. Their tongues go with
their swords. They return to the day of our first entry here,
and with excusable enlargement tell what they saw then in
contrast with the present.”
“And whom blame they for the failure now?”
“The captain Alvarado.”
Cortes' brows dropped, and he became thoughtful again,
and in such temper rode into the city.
Within the walls, everywhere the visitors looked, were
signs of life, but nowhere a living thing; neither on the
street, nor in the houses, nor on the housetops, — not
even a bird in the sky. A stillness possessed the place,
peculiar in that it seemed to assert a presence, and palpably
lurk in the shade, lie on the doorsteps, issue from the windows,
and pervade the air; giving notice, so that not a man,
menaced with danger. There is nothing so appalling as the
unaccountable absence of life in places habitually populous;
nothing so desolate as a deserted city.
“Por Dios!” said Olmedo, toying with the beads at his
side, “I had rather the former reception than the present.
Pleasanter the sullen multitude than the silence without the
multitude.”
Cortes made him no answer, but rode on abstractedly,
until stopped by his advance-guard.
“At rest!” he said, angrily. “Had ye the signal? I
heard it not.”
“Nor did we, Señor,” replied the officer in charge. “But,
craving thy pardon, approach, and see what the infidels have
done here.”
Cortes drew near, and found himself on the brink of the
first canal. He swore a great oath; the bridge was dismantled.
On the hither side, however, lay the timbers,
frame and floor. The tamanes detailed from the guns replaced
them.
“Bartolomé, good father,” said Cortes, confidentially,
when the march was resumed, “thou hast a commendable
habit of holding what thou hearest, and therefore I shame
not to confess that I, too, prefer the first reception. The
absence of the heathen and the condition of yon bridge
are parts of one plan, and signs certain of battle now ready
to be delivered.”
“If it be God's will, amen!” replied the priest, calmly.
“We are stronger than when we went out.”
“So is the enemy, for he hath organized his people. The
hordes that stared at us so stupidly when we first came —
be the curse of the saints upon them! — are now fighting
men.”
Olmedo searched his face, and said, coldly, “To doubt
is to dread the result.”
“Nay, by my conscience! I neither doubt nor dread. Yet
I hold it not unseemly to confess that I had rather meet the
brunt on the firm land, with room for what the occasion
offers. I like not yon canal, with its broken bridge, too
wide for horse, too deep for weighted man; it putteth us to
disadvantage, and hath a hateful reminder of the brigantines,
which, as thou mayest remember, we left at anchor, mistresses
of the lake; in our absence they have been lost, — a
most measureless folly, father! But let it pass, let it pass!
The Mother — blessed be her name! — hath not forsaken us.
Montezuma is ours, and —”
“He is victory,” said Olmedo, zealously.
“He is the New World!” answered Cortes.
And so it chanced that the poor king was centre of
thought for both the 'tzin and his enemy, — the dread of one
and the hope of the other.
3. CHAPTER III.
LA VIRUELA.
A LONG interval behind the rear-guard — indeed, the
very last of the army, and quite two hours behind
— came four Indian slaves, bringing a man stretched upon
a litter.
And the litter was open, and the sun beat cruelly on the
man's face; but plaint he made not, nor motion, except that
his head rolled now right, now left, responsive to the cadenced
steps of his hearers.
Was he sick or wounded?
Nathless, into the city they carried him.
And in front of the new palace of the king, they stopped,
at the great house, imagining vaguely the splendor within,
a groan startled them. They looked at their charge; he
was dead! Then they looked at each other, and fled.
And in less than twice seven days they too died, and died
horribly; and in dying recognized their disease as that of
the stranger they had abandoned before the palace, — the
small-pox, or, in the language which hath a matchless trick
of melting everything, even the most ghastly, into music,
la viruela of the Spaniard.
The sick man on the litter was a negro, — first of his race
on the new continent!
And most singular, in dying, he gave his masters another
servant stronger than himself, and deadlier to the infidels
than swords of steel, — a servant that found way everywhere
in the crowded city, and rested not. And everywhere
its breath, like its touch, was mortal; insomuch that
a score and ten died of it where one fell in battle.
Of the myriads who thus perished, one was a KING.
4. CHAPTER IV.
MONTEZUMA A PROPHET. — HIS PROPHECY.
SCARCE five weeks before, Cortes sallied from the palace
with seventy soldiers, ragged, yet curiously bedight
with gold and silver; now he returned full-handed, at his
back thirteen hundred infantry, a hundred horse, additional
guns and Tlascalans. Surely, he could hold what he had
gained.
The garrison stood in the court-yard to receive him.
Trumpet replied to trumpet, and the reverberation of drums
the ranks were broken, and the veterans — those who had
remained, and those who had followed their chief — rushed
clamorously into each other's arms. Comradeship, with its
strange love, born of toil and danger, and nursed by red-handed
battle, asserted itself. The men of Narvaez looked
on indifferently, or clomb the palace, and from the roof surveyed
the vicinage, especially the great temple, apparently
as forsaken as the city.
And in the court-yard Cortes met Alvarado, saluting him
coldly. The latter excused his conduct as best he could;
but the palliations were unsatisfactory. The general turned
from him with bitter denunciations; and as he did so, a
procession approached: four nobles, carrying silver wands;
then a train in doubled files; then Montezuma, in the royal
regalia, splendid from head to foot. The shade of the
canopy borne above him wrapped his person in purpled softness,
but did not hide that other shadow discernible in the
slow, uncertain step, the bent form, the wistful eyes, — the
shadow of the coming Fate. Such of his family as shared
his captivity brought up the cortege.
At the sight, Cortes waited; his blood was hot, and his
head filled with the fumes of victory; from a great height,
as it were, he looked upon the retinue, and its sorrowful master;
and his eyes wandered fitfully from the Christians, worn
by watching and hunger, to the sumptuousness of the infidels;
so that when the monarch drew nigh him, the temper
of his heart was as the temper of his corselet.
“I salute you, O Malinche, and welcome your return,”
said Montezuma, according to the interpretation of Marina.
The Spaniard heard him without a sign of recognition.
“The good Lady of your trust has had you in care;
she has given you the victory. I congratulate you, Malinche.”
Still the Spaniard was obstinate.
The king hesitated, dropped his eyes under the cold stare,
and was frozen into silence. Then Cortes turned upon his
heel, and, without a word, sought his chamber.
The insult was plain, and the witnesses, Christian and
infidel, were shocked; and while they stood surprised, Tula
rushed up, and threw her arms around the victim's neck, and
laid her head upon his breast. The retinue closed around
them, as if to hide the shame; and thus the unhappy
monarch went back to his quarters, — back to his captivity,
to his remorse, and the keener pangs of pride savagely
lacerated.
For a time he was like one dazed; but, half waking, he
wrung his hands, and said, feebly, “It cannot be, it cannot
be! Maxtla, take the councillors and go to Malinche,
and say that I wish to see him. Tell him the business is
urgent, and will not wait. Bring me his answer, omitting
nothing.”
The young chief and the four nobles departed, and the
king relapsed into his dazement, muttering, “It cannot be,
it cannot be!”
The commissioners delivered the message. Olid, Leon,
and others who were present begged Cortes to be considerate.
“No,” he replied; “the dog of a king would have betrayed
us to Narvaez; before his eyes we are allowed to
hunger. Why are the markets closed? I have nothing to
do with him.”
And to the commissioners he said, “Tell your master to
open the markets, or we will for him. Begone!”
And they went back and reported, omitting nothing, not
even the insulting epithet. The king heard them silently;
as they proceeded, he gathered strength; when they ceased,
he was calm and resolved.
“Return to Malinche,” he said, “and tell him what I
wished to say: that my people are ready to attack him, and
that the only means I know to divert them from their purpose
is to release the lord Cuitlahua, my brother, and send
him to them to enforce my orders. There is now no other of
authority upon whom I can depend to keep the peace, and
open the markets; he is the last hope. Go.”
The messengers departed; and when they were gone the
monarch said, “Leave the chamber now, all but Tula.”
At the last outgoing footstep she went near, and knelt
before him; knowing, with the divination which is only of
woman, that she was now to have reply to the 'tzin's message,
delivered by her in the early morning. Her tearful
look he answered with a smile, saying tenderly, “I do not
know whether I gave you welcome. If I did not, I will
amend the fault. Come near.”
She arose, and, putting an arm over his shoulder, knelt
closer by his side; he kissed her forehead, and pressed her
close to his breast. Nothing could exceed the gentleness
of the caress, unless it was the accompanying look. She
replied with tears, and such breaking sobs as are only permitted
to passion and childhood.
“Now, if never before,” he continued, “you are my best
beloved, because your faith in me fell not away with that of
all the world besides; especially, O good heart! especially
because you have to-day shown me an escape from my intolerable
misery and misfortunes, — for which may the gods
who have abandoned me bless you!”
He stroked the dark locks under his hand lovingly.
“Tears? Let there be none for me. I am happy. I
have been unresolved, drifting with uncertain currents, doubtful,
yet hopeful, seeing nothing, and imagining everything;
waiting, sometimes on men, sometimes on the gods, — and
that so long, — ah, so long! But now the weakness is past.
over myself; with every faculty restored, the very
king whom erst you knew, I will make answer to the 'tzin.
Listen well. I give you my last decree, after which I shall
regard myself as lost to the world. If I live, I shall never
rule again. Somewhere in the temples I shall find a cell
like that from which they took me to be king. The sweetness
of the solitude I remember yet. There I will wait for death;
and my waiting shall be so seemly that his coming shall be
as the coming of a restful sleep. Hear then, and these words
give the 'tzin: Not as king to subject, nor as priest to penitent,
but as father to son, I send him my blessing. Of pardon
I say nothing. All he has done for Anahuac, and all
he hopes to do for her, I approve. Say to him, also, that
in the last hour Malinche will come for me to go with him
to the people, and that I will go. Then, I say, let the 'tzin
remember what the gods have laid upon him, and with his
own hand do the duty, that it may be certainly done. A
man's last prayer belongs to the gods, his last look to those
who love him. In dying there is no horror like lingering
long amidst enemies.”
His voice trembled, and he paused. She raised her eyes
to his face, which was placid, but rapt, as if his spirit had
been caught by a sudden vision.
“To the world,” he said, in a little while, “I have bid
farewell. I see its vanities go from me one by one; last
in the train, and most glittering, most loved, Power, — and
in its hands is my heart. A shadow creeps upon me, darkening
all without, but brightening all within; and in the
brightness, lo, my People and their Future!”
He stopped again, then resumed: —
“The long, long cycles — two, — four, — eight — pass
away, and I see the tribes newly risen, like the trodden
grass, and in their midst a Priesthood and a Cross. An age
their stead Freedom and God.”
And with the last word, as if to indicate the Christian
God, the report of a gun without broke the spell of the
seer; the two started, and looked at each other, listening
for what might follow; but there was nothing more, and he
went on quietly talking to her.
“I know the children of the Aztec, crushed now, will live,
and more, — after ages of wrong suffered by them, they will
rise up, and take their place — a place of splendor — amongst
the deathless nations of the earth. What I saw was revelation.
Cherish the words, O Tula; repeat them often;
make them an utterance of the people, a sacred tradition;
let them go down with the generations, one of which will, at
last, rightly interpret the meaning of the words Freedom
and God, now dark to my understanding; and then, not till
then, will be the new birth and new career. And so shall my
name become of the land a part, suggested by all things, —
by the sun mildly tempering its winds; by the rivers singing
in its valleys; by the stars seen from its mountain-tops;
by its cities, and their palaces and halls; and so shall its red
races of whatever blood learn to call me father, and in their
glory, as well as misery, pray for and bless me.”
In the progress of this speech his voice grew stronger,
and insensibly his manner ennobled; at the conclusion, his
appearance was majestic. Tula regarded him with awe, and
accepted his utterances, not as the song habitual to the Aztec
warrior at the approach of death, nor as the rhapsody of
pride soothing itself; she accepted them as prophecy, and as
a holy trust, — a promise to be passed down through time,
to a generation of her race, the first to understand truly the
simple words, — Freedom and God. And they were silent
a long time.
At length there was a warning at the door; the little
The king looked that way, frowning. The intruder entered
without nequen; as he drew near the monarch's seat, his
steps became slower, and his head drooped upon his breast.
“Cuitlahua! my brother!” said Montezuma, surprised.
“Brother and king!” answered the cacique, as he knelt
and placed both palms upon the floor.
“You bring me a message. Arise and speak.”
“No,” said Cuitlahua, rising. “I have come to receive
your signet and orders. I am free. The guard is at the
door to pass me through the gate. Malinche would have me
go and send the people home, and open the markets; he said
such were your orders. But from him I take nothing except
liberty. But you, O king, what will you, — peace or
war?”
Tula looked anxiously at the monarch; would the old
vacillation return? He replied firmly and gravely, —
“I have given my last order as king. Tula will go with
you from the palace, and deliver it to you.”
He arose while speaking, and gave the cacique a ring; then
for a moment he regarded the two with suffused eyes, and
said, “I divide my love between you and my people. For
their sake, I say, go hence quickly, lest Malinche change his
mind. You, O my brother, and you, my child, take my
blessing and that of the gods! Farewell.”
He embraced them both. To Tula he clung long and passionately.
More than his ambassadress to the 'tzin, she bore
his prophecy to the generations of the future. His last kiss
was dewy with her tears. With their faces to him, they
moved to the door; as they passed out, each gave a last
look, and caught his image then, — the image of a man
breaking because he happened to be in God's way.
5. CHAPTER V.
HOW TO YIELD A CROWN.
AS the guard passed the old lord and the princess out
of the gate opposite the teocallis, the latter looked up
to the azoteas of the sacred pile, and saw the 'tzin standing
near the verge; taking off the white scarf that covered her
head, and fell from her shoulders, after passing once around
her neck, she gave him the signal. He waved his hand in
reply, and disappeared.
The lord Cuitlahua, just released from imprisonment and
ignorant of the situation, scarcely knowing whither to turn
yet impatient to set his revenge in motion, accepted the
suggestion of Tula, and accompanied her to the temple. The
ascent was laborious, especially to him; at the top, however,
they were received by Io' and Hualpa, and with every show
of respect conducted to the 'tzin. He saluted them gravely,
yet affectionately. Cuitlahua told him the circumstances of
his release from imprisonment.
“So,” said the 'tzin, “Malinche expects you to open the
market, and forbid the war; but the king, — what of
him?”
“To Tula he gave his will; hear her.”
And she repeated the message of her father. At the
end, the calm of the 'tzin's temper was much disturbed.
At his instance she again and again recited the prophecy.
The words “Freedom and God” were as dark to him as
to the king, and he wondered at them. But that was
not all. Clearly, Montezuma approved the war; that he
intended its continuance was equally certain; unhappily,
there was no designation of a commander. And in thought
appeal to him more strongly; but he brushed the
allurement away, and said to Cuitlahua, —
“The king has been pleased to be silent as to which of us
should govern in his absence; but we are both of one mind;
the right is yours naturally, and your coming at this time,
good uncle, looks as if the gods sent you. Take the government,
therefore, and give me your orders. Malinche is
stronger than ever.” He turned thoughtfully to the palace
below, over which the flag of Spain and that of Cortes were
now displayed. “He will require of us days of toil and
fighting, and many assaults. In conquering him there will
be great glory, which I pray you will let me divide with
you.”
The lord Cuitlahua heard the patriotic speech with glistening
eyes. Undoubtedly he appreciated the self-denial that
made it beautiful; for he said, with emotion, “I accept the
government, and, as its cares demand, will take my brother's
place in the palace; do you take what else would be my
place under him in the field. And may the gods help us
each to do his duty!”
He held out his hand, which the 'tzin kissed in token of
fealty, and so yielded the crown; and as if the great act
were already out of mind, he said, —
“Come, now, good uncle, — and you, also, Tula, — come
both of you, and I will show what use I made of the kingly
power.”
He led them closer to the verge of the azoteas, so close
that they saw below them the whole western side of the city,
and beyond that the lake and its shore, clear to the sierra
bounding the valley in that direction.
“There,” said he, in the same strain of simplicity, “there,
in the shadow of the hills, I gathered the people of the valley,
and the flower of all the tribes that pay us tribute.
chiefs are chosen; you may depend upon them, uncle. The
whole great host will die for you.”
“Say, rather, for us,” said the lord Cuitlahua.
“No, you are now Anahuac”; and, as deeming the point
settled, the 'tzin turned to Tula. “O good heart,” he said,
“you have been a witness to all the preparation. At your
signal, given there by the palace gate, I kindled the piles
which yet burn, as you see, at the four corners of the
temple. Through them I spoke to the chiefs and armies
waiting on the lake-shore. Look now, and see their answers.”
They looked, and from the shore and from each pretentious
summit of the sierra, saw columns of smoke rising and
melting into the sky.
“In that way the chiefs tell me, `We are ready,' or `We
are coming.' And we cannot doubt them; for see, a dark
line on the white face of the causeway to Cojohuacan, its
head nearly touching the gates at Xoloc; and another from
Tlacopan; and from the north a third; and yonder on the
lake, in the shadow of Chapultepec, a yet deeper shadow.”
“I see them,” said Cuitlahua.
“And I,” said Tula. “What are they?”
For the first time the 'tzin acknowledged a passing sentiment;
he raised his head and swept the air with a haughty
gesture.
“What are they? Wait a little, and you shall see the lines
on the causeways grow into ordered companies, and the
shadows under Chapultepec become a multitude of canoes;
wait a little longer, and you shall see the companies fill all the
great streets, and the canoes girdle the city round about;
wait a little longer, and you may see the battle.”
And silence fell upon the three, — the silence, however, in
which hearts beat like drums. From point to point they
from the lake to the palace.
Slowly the converging lines crawled toward the city;
slowly the dark mass under the royal hill, sweeping out on
the lake, broke into divisions; slowly the banners came into
view, of every color and form, and then the shields and
uniforms, until, at last, each host on its separate way
looked like an endless unrolling ribbon.
When the column approaching by the causeway from
Tlacopan touched the city with its advance, it halted, waiting
for the others, which, having farther to march, were yet
some distance out. Then the three on the teocallis separated;
the princess retired to her chinampa; the lord Cuitlahua,
with some nobles of the 'tzin's train, betook himself to the
new palace, there to choose a household; the 'tzin, for purposes
of observation, remained on the azoteas.
And all the time the threatened palace was a picture of
peace; the flags hung idly down; only the sentinels were in
motion, and they gossiped with each other, or lingered
lazily at places where a wall or a battlement flung them a
friendly shade.
6. CHAPTER VI.
IN THE LEAGUER.
BY and by a Spaniard came out through the main gateway
of the palace; after brief leave-taking with the
guard there, he walked rapidly down the street. The 'tzin,
observing that the man was equipped for a journey, surmised
him to be a courier, and smiled at the confidence of
the master who sent him forth alone at such a time.
The courier went his way, and the great movement proceeded.
After a while Hualpa and Io' came down from the turret
where, under the urn of fire, they too had been watching,
and the former said, —
“Your orders, O 'tzin, are executed. The armies all
stand halted at the gates of the city, and at the outlet
of each canal I saw a division of canoes lying in wait.”
The 'tzin looked up at the sun, then past meridian, and replied,
“It is well. When the chiefs see but one smoke from
this temple they will enter the city. Go, therefore, and
put out all the fires except that of Huitzil'.”
And soon but one smoke was to be seen.
A little afterwards there was a loud cry from the street,
and, looking down, the 'tzin saw the Spanish courier, without
morion or lance, staggering as he ran, and shouting.
Instantly the great gate was flung open, and the man taken
in; and instantly a trumpet rang out, and then another and
another. Guatamozin sprang up. The alarm-note thrilled
him no less than the Christians.
The palace, before so slumberous, became alive. The
Tlascalans poured from the sheds, that at places lined the
interior of the parapet, and from the main building forth
rushed the Spaniards, — bowmen, slingers, and arquebusiers;
and the gunners took post by their guns, while the cavalry
clothed their horses, and stood by the bridles. There was
no tumult, no confusion; and when the 'tzin saw them in
their places — placid, confident, ready — his heart beat
hard: he would win, — on that he was resolved, — but
ah, at what mighty cost!
Soon, half drowned by the voices of the captains mustering
the enemy below, he heard another sound rising from
every quarter of the city, but deeper and more sustained,
where the great columns marched. He listened intently.
the commingled war-cries of almost all the known fighting
tribes of the New World. The chiefs were faithful;
they were coming, — by the canals, and up and down the
great streets, they were coming; and he listened, measuring
their speed by the growing distinctness of the clamor. As
they came nearer, he became confident, then eager. Suddenly,
everything, — objects far and near, the old palace, and
the hated flags, the lake, and the purple distance, and the
unflecked sky, — all melted into mist, for he looked at them
through tears. So the Last of the 'Tzins welcomed his
tawny legions.
While he indulged the heroic weakness, Io' and Hualpa
rejoined him. About the same time Cortes and some of his
cavaliers appeared on the azoteas of the central and higher
part of the palace. They were in armor, but with raised
visors, and seemed to be conjecturing one with another, and
listening to the portentous sounds that now filled the welkin.
And as the 'tzin, in keen enjoyment, watched the
wonder that plainly possessed the enemy, there was a flutter
of gay garments upon the palace, and two women joined
the party.
“Nenetzin!” said Io', in a low voice.
“Nenetzin!” echoed Hualpa.
And sharper grew his gaze, while down stooped the sun
to illumine the face of the faithless, as, smiling the old
smile, she rested lovingly upon Alvarado's arm. He turned
away, and covered his head. But soon a hand was laid
upon his shoulder, and he heard a voice, — the voice of the
'tzin, —
“Lord Hualpa, as once before you were charged, I charge
you now. With your own hand make the signal. Io' will
bring you the word. Go now.” Then the voice sunk to a
whisper. “Patience, comrade. The days for many to come
the toils; yet a little longer. Patience!”
The noise of the infidels had now come to be a vast
uproar, astonishing to the bravest of the listeners. Even
Cortes shared the common feeling. That war was intended
he knew; but he had not sufficiently credited the Aztec
genius. The whole valley appeared to be in arms. His face
became a shade more ashy as he thought, either this was
of the king, or the people were capable of grand action
without the king; and he griped his sword-hand hard in
emphasis of the oath he swore, to set the monarch and his
people face to face; that would he, by his conscience, —
by the blood of the saints!
And as he swore, here and there upon the adjacent houses
armed men showed themselves; and directly the heads of
columns came up, and, turning right and left at the corners,
began to occupy all the streets around the royal enclosure.
If one would fancy what the cavaliers then saw, let him
first recall the place. It was in the heart of the city. Eastward
arose the teocallis, — a terraced hill in fact, and every
terrace a vantage-point. On all other sides of the palace were
edifices each higher than its highest part; and each fronted
with a wall resembling a parapet, except that its outer face
was in general richly ornamented with fretwork and mouldings
and arches and grotesque corbals and cantilevers.
Every roof was occupied by infidels; over the sculptured
walls they looked down into the fortress, if I may so call it,
of the strangers.
As the columns marched and countermarched in the
streets thus beautifully bounded, they were a spectacle of
extraordinary animation. Over them played the semi-transparent
shimmer or thrill of air, so to speak, peculiar to armies
in rapid movement, — curious effect of changing colors and
multitudinous motion. The Christians studied them with
sensations of a soldier watching the foe taking post for
combat.
Of arms there were in the array every variety known to
the Aztecan service, — the long bow; the javelin; slings of
the ancient fashion, fitted for casting stones a pound or more
in weight; the maquahuitl, limited to the officers; and here
and there long lances with heads of bronze or sharpened flint.
The arms, it must be confessed, added little to the general
appearance of the mass, — a deficiency amply compensated
by the equipments. The quivers of the bowmen, and the
pouches of the slingers, and the broad straps that held them
to the person were brilliantly decorated. Equally striking
were the costumes of the several branches of the service:
the fillet, holding back the long, straight hair, and full of
feathers, mostly of the eagle and turkey, though not unfrequently
of the ostrich, — costly prizes come, in the way of
trade, from the far llanos of the south; the escaupil, of brightest
crimson; the shield, faced with brazen plates, and edged
with flying tufts of buffalo hair, and sometimes with longer
and brighter locks, the gift of a mistress or a trophy of war.
These articles, though half barbaric, lost nothing by contrast
with the naked, dark-brown necks and limbs of the warriors,
— lithe and stately men, from whom the officers were distinguished
by helmets of hideous device and mantles indescribably
splendid. Over all shone the ensigns, indicia of the
tribes: here a shining sphere; there a star, or a crescent, or
a radial sun; but most usually a floating cloth covered with
blazonry.
With each company marched a number of priests, bareheaded
and frocked, and a corps of musicians, of whom some
blew unearthly discords from conchs, while others clashed
cymbals, and beat atabals fashioned like the copper tam-tams
of the Hindoos.
Even the marching of the companies was peculiar. Instead
of the slow, laborious step of the European, they
came on at a pace which, between sunrise and sunset,
habitually carried them from the bivouac twenty leagues
away.
And as they marched, the ensigns tossed to and fro; the
priests sang monotonous canticles; the cymbalists danced
and leaped joyously at the head of their companies; and the
warriors in the ranks flung their shields aloft, and yelled
their war-cries, as if drunk with happiness.
As the inundation of war swept around the palace, a cavalier
raised his eyes to the temple.
“Valgame Dios!” he cried, in genuine alarm. “The
levies of the valley are not enough. Lo, the legions of the
air!”
On the azoteas where but the moment before only the 'tzin
and Io' were to be seen, there were hundreds of caparisoned
warriors; and as the Christians looked at them, they all
knelt, leaving but one man standing; simultaneously the
companies on the street stopped, and, with those on the
house-tops, hushed their yells, and turned up to him their
faces countless and glistening.
“Who is he?” the cavaliers asked each other.
Cortes, cooler than the rest, turned to Marina: “Ask the
princess Nenetzin if she knows him.”
And Nenetzin answered, —
“The 'tzin Guatamo.”
As the two chiefs surveyed each other in full recognition,
down from the sky, as it were, broke an intonation so deep
that the Christians were startled, and the women fled from
the roof.
“Ola!” cried Alvarado, with a laugh. “I have heard
that thunder before. Down with your visors, gentlemen, as
ye care for the faces your mothers love!”
Three times Hualpa struck the great drum in the sanctuary
of Huitzil'; and as the last intonation rolled down over the
city the clamor of the infidels broke out anew, and into
the enclosure of the palace they poured a cloud of missiles
so thick that place of safety there was not anywhere outside
the building.
To this time the garrison had kept silence; now, standing
each at his post, they answered. In the days of the former
siege, besides preparing banquettes for the repulsion of escalades,
they had pierced the outer walls, generally but little
higher than a man's head, with loop-holes and embrasures,
out of which the guns, great and small, were suddenly pointed
and discharged. No need of aim; outside, not farther than
the leap of the flames, stood the assailants. The effect,
especially of the artillery, was dreadful; and the prodigious
noise, and the dense, choking smoke, stupefied and blinded
the masses, so unused to such enginery. And from the wall
they shrank staggering, and thousands turned to fly; but in
pressed the chiefs and the priests, and louder rose the clangor
of conchs and cymbals: the very density of the multitude
helped stay the panic.
And down from the temple came the 'tzin, not merely to
give the effect of his presence, but to direct the assault. In
the sanctuary he had arrayed himself; his escaupil and tilmatli,
of richest feather-work, fairly blazed; his helm and
shield sparkled; and behind, scarcely less splendid, walked
Io' and Hualpa. He crossed the street, shouting his war-cry.
At sight of him, men struggling to get away turned to fight
again.
Next the wall of the palace the shrinking of the infidels
had left a clear margin; and there, the better to be seen by
his people, the 'tzin betook himself. In front of the embrasures
he cleared the lines of fire, so that the guns were
often ineffectual; he directed attention to the loopholes, so
arrows to the spot. Taught by his example, the warriors
found that under the walls there was a place of safety;
then he set them to climbing; for that purpose some stuck
their javelins in the cracks of the masonry; some formed
groups over which others raised themselves; altogether the
crest of the wall was threatened in a thousand places,
insomuch that the Tlascalans occupied themselves exclusively
in its defence; and as often as one raised to strike a climber
down, he made himself a target for the quick bowmen on
the opposite houses.
And so, wherever the 'tzin went he inspired his countrymen;
the wounded, and the many dead and dying, and
the blood maddened instead of daunting them. They
rained missiles into the enclosure; upon the wall they fought
hand to hand with the defenders; in their inconsiderate fury,
many leaped down inside, and perished instantly, — but all
in vain.
Then the 'tzin had great timbers brought up, thinking to
batter in the parapet. Again and again they were hurled
against the face of the masonry, but without effect.
Yet another resort. He had balls of cotton steeped in oil
shot blazing into the palace-yard. Against the building, and
on its tiled roof, they fell harmless. It happened, however,
that the sheds in which the Tlascalans quartered consisted
almost entirely of reeds, with roofs of rushes and palm-leaves;
they burst into flames. Water could not be spared
by the garrison, for the drought was great; in the extremity,
the Tlascalans and many Christians were drawn from the defences,
and set to casting earth upon the new enemy. Hundreds
of the former were killed or disabled. The flames
spread to the wooden outworks of the wall. The smoke
almost blotted out the day. After a while a part of the wall
fell down, and the infidels rushed in; a steady fire of arquebuses
slain; still others braved the peril; company after company
dashed into the fatal snare uselessly, as waves roll forward
and spend themselves in the gorge of a sea-wall.
The conflict lasted without abatement through long hours.
The sun went down. In the twilight the great host withdrew,
— all that could. The smoke from the conflagration
and guns melted into the shades of night; and the stars,
mild-eyed as ever, came out one by one to see the wrecks
heaped and ghastly lying in the bloody street and palace-yard.
All night the defenders lay upon their arms, or, told off in
working parties, labored to restore the breach.
All night the infidels collected their dead and wounded,
thousands in number. They did not offer to attack, — custom
forbade that; yet over the walls they sent their vengeful
warnings.
All night the listening sentinels on the parapet noted the
darkness filled with sounds of preparation from every quarter
of the city. And they crossed themselves, and muttered
the names of saints and good angels, and thought shudderingly
of the morrow.
7. CHAPTER VII.
IN THE LEAGUER YET.
GUATAMOZIN took little rest that night. The very
uncertainty of the combat multiplied his cares. It
was not to be supposed that his enemy would keep to the
palace, content day after day with receiving assaults; that
was neither his character nor his policy. To-morrow he would
certainly open the gates, and try conclusions in the streets.
So the 'tzin went along all the streets leading
to the old palace, followed by strong working-parties; and
where the highest houses fronted each other, he stopped,
and thereat the details fell to making barricades, and carrying
stones and logs to the roofs. As a final measure of importance,
he cut passages through the walls of the houses
and gardens, that companies might be passed quickly and
secretly from one thoroughfare to another.
Everywhere he found great cause for mourning; but the
stories of the day were necessarily lost in the demands of
the morrow.
He visited his caciques, and waited on the lord Cuitlahua
to take his orders; then he passed to the temples, whence,
as he well knew, the multitudes in great part derived their
inspiration. The duties of the soldier, politician, and devotee
discharged, he betook himself to the chinampa, and to Tula
told the heroisms of the combat, and his plans and hopes;
there he renewed his own inspirations.
Toward morning he returned to the great temple. Hualpa
and Io', having followed him throughout his round, spread
their mantles on the roof, and slept: he could not; between
the work of yesterday and that to come, his mind played
pendulously, and with such forceful activity as forbade
slumber. From the quarters of the strangers, moreover, he
heard constantly the ringing of hammers, the neighing and
trampling of steeds, and voices of direction. It was a long
night to him; but at last over the crown of the White
Woman the dawn flung its first light into the valley; and
then he saw the palace, its walls manned, the gunners by
their pieces, and in the great court lines of footmen, and at
the main gate horsemen standing by their bridles.
“Thanks, O gods!” he cried. “Walls will not separate
my people from their enemies to-day!”
With the sunrise the assault began, — a repetition of that
of the day before.
Then the guns opened; and while the infidels reeled
under the fire, out of the gates rode Cortes and his chivalry,
a hundred men-at-arms. Into the mass they dashed. Space
sufficient having been won, they wheeled southward down
the beautiful street, followed by detachments of bowmen
and arquebusiers and Tlascalans. With them also went
Mesa and his guns.
When fairly in the street, environed with walls, the 'tzin's
tactics and preparation appeared. Upon the approach of
the cavalry, the companies took to the houses; only those
fell who stopped to fight or had not time to make the exit.
All the time, however, the horsemen were exposed to the
missiles tossed upon them from the roofs. Soon as they
passed, out rushed the infidels in hordes, to fall upon the
flanks and rear of the supporting detachments. Never was
Mesa so hard pressed; never were helm and corselet so
nearly useless; never gave up the ghost so many of the
veteran Tlascalans.
At length the easy way of the cavalry was brought to a
stop; before them was the first barricade, — a work of earth
and stones too high to be leaped, and defended by Chinantlan
spears, of all native weapons the most dreaded. Nevertheless,
Cortes drew rein only at its foot. On the instant
his shield and mail warded off a score of bronzed points,
whirled his axe, crash went the spears, — that was all.
Meantime, the eager horsemen in the rear, not knowing
of the obstacle in front, pressed on; the narrow space became
packed; then from the roofs on the right hand and
the left descended a tempest of stones and lances, blent
with beams of wood, against which no guard was strong
enough. Six men and horses fell there. A cry of dismay
arose from the pack, and much calling was there on patron
steeds, and vain looking upward through bars of steel.
Cortes quitted smashing spears over the barricade.
“Out! out! Back, in Christ's name!” he cried.
The jam was finally relieved.
Again his voice, —
“To Mesa, some of ye; bring the guns! Speed!”
Then he, too, rode slowly back, and sharper than the
shame of the retreat, sharper than the arrows or the taunts
of the foe, sharper than all of them together, was the sight
of the six riders in their armor left to quick despoilment, —
they and their good steeds.
It was not easy for Mesa to come; but he did, opening
within a hundred feet of the barricade. Again and again
he fired; the smoke wreathed blinding white about him.
“What sayest thou now?” asked Cortes, impatiently.
“That thou mayest go, and thou wilt. The saints go with
thee!”
The barricade was a ruin.
At the first bridge again there was a fierce struggle; when
taken, the floor was heaped with dead and wounded infidels.
And so for hours. Only at the last gate, that opening on
the causeway to Iztapalapan, did Cortes stay the sally. There,
riding to the rear, now become the front, he started in return.
Needless to tell how well the Christians fought, or
how devotedly the pagans resisted and perished. Enough
that the going back was more difficult than the coming.
Four more of the Spaniards perished on the way.
At a late hour that night Sandoval entered Cortes' room,
and gave him a parchment. The chief went to the lamp and
read; then, snatching his sword from the table, he walked
to and fro, as was his wont when much disturbed; only his
strides were longer, and the gride of the weapon on the tiled
floor more relentless than common.
He stopped abruptly.
“Dead, ten of them! And their horses, captain?”
“Three were saved,” replied Sandoval.
“By my conscience, I like it not! and thou?”
“I like it less,” said the captain, naïvely.
“What say the men?”
“They demand to be led from the city while yet they
have strength to go.”
Cortes frowned and continued his walk. When next he
stopped, he said, in the tone of a man whose mind was
made up, —
“Good night, captain. See that the sentinels sleep not;
and, captain, as thou goest, send hither Martin Lopez, and
mind him to bring one or two of his master carpenters.
Good night.”
The mind of the leader, never so quick as in time of
trouble, had in the few minutes reviewed the sortie. True,
he had broken through the barricades, taken bridge after
bridge, and driven the enemy often as they opposed him;
he had gone triumphantly to the very gates of the city, and
returned, and joined Olmedo in unctuous celebration of the
achievement; yet the good was not as clear and immediate
as at first appeared.
He recalled the tactics of his enemy: how, on his approach,
they had vanished from the street and assailed him
from the roofs; how, when he had passed, they poured into
the street again, and flung themselves hand to hand upon
the infantry and artillery. And the result, — ten riders and
seven horses were dead; of the Tlascalans in the column
nearly all had perished; every Christian foot-soldier had one
or more wounds. At Cempoalla he himself had been hurt
in the left hand; now he was sore with contusions. He set
his teeth hard at thought of the moral effect of the day's
work; how it would raise the spirit of the infidels, and depress
clamoring to be led from the city, — so the blunt Captain
Sandoval had said.
The enemy's advantage was in the possession of the
houses. The roofs dominated the streets. Were there no
means by which he could dominate the roofs? He bent
his whole soul to the problem. Somewhere he had read or
heard of the device known in ancient warfare as mantelets,
— literally, a kind of portable roof, under which besiegers
approached and sapped or battered a wall. The recollection
was welcome; the occasion called for an extraordinary resort.
He laid the sword gently upon the table, gently as he
would a sleeping child, and sent for Lopez.
That worthy came, and with him two carpenters, each as
rough as himself. And it was a picture, if not a comedy,
to watch the four bending over the table to follow Cortes,
while, with his dagger-point, he drew lines illustrative of the
strange machine. They separated with a perfect understanding.
The chief slept soundly, his confidence stronger than
ever.
Another day, — the third. From morn till noon and
night, the clamor of assault and the exertion of defence, the
roar of guns from within, the rain of missiles from without,
— Death everywhere.
All the day Cortes held to the palace. On the other side,
the 'tzin kept close watch from the teocallis. That morning
early he had seen workmen bring from the palace some stout
timbers, and in the great court-yard proceed to frame them.
He plied the party with stones and arrows; again and again,
best of all the good bowmen of the valley, he himself sent
his shafts at the man who seemed the director of the
work; as often did they splinter upon his helm or corselet, or
drop harmless from the close links of tempered steel defending
his limbs. The work went steadily on, and by noon
as ordinary houses. By sunset both were under roof.
When the night came, the garrison were not rested; and
as to the infidels, the lake received some hundreds more of
them, which was only room made for other hundreds as brave
and devoted.
Over the palace walls the besiegers sent words ominous and
disquieting, and not to be confounded with the half-sung
formulas of the watchers keeping time on the temples by the
movement of the stars.
“Malinche, Malinche, we are a thousand to your one.
Our gods hunger for vengeance. You cannot escape
them.”
So the Spaniards heard in their intervals of unrest.
“O false sons of Anahuac, the festival is making ready;
your hearts are Huitzil's; the cages are open to receive you.”
The Tlascalans heard, and trembled.
The fourth day. Still Cortes kept within the palace, and
still the assault; nor with all the slaughter could there be
perceived any decrease either in the number of the infidels
or the spirit of their attack.
Meantime the workmen in the court-yard clung to the
construction of the towers. Lopez was skilful, Cortes impatient.
At last they were finished.
That night the 'tzin visited Tula. At parting, she followed
him to the landing. Yeteve went with her. “The blessing
of the gods be upon you!” she said; and the benediction, so
trustful and sweetly spoken, was itself a blessing. Even
the slaves, under their poised oars, looked at her and forgot
themselves, as well they might. The light of the great
torch, kindled by the keeper of the chinampa, revealed her
perfectly. The head slightly bent, and the hands crossed
over the breast, helped the prayerful speech. Her eyes were
not upon the slaves, yet their effect was; and they were
nothing from it, neither depth nor darkness.
The canoe put off.
“Farewell,” said Io'. His warrior-life was yet in its
youth.
“Farewell,” said Hualpa. And she heard him, and knew
him thinking of his lost love.
In the 'tzin's absence the garrison of the temple had been
heavily reinforced. The azoteas, when he returned, was
covered with warriors, asleep on their mantles, and pillowed
on their shields. He bade his companions catch what
slumber they could, and went into the grimy but full-lighted
presence-chamber, and seated himself on the step of the
altar. In a little while Hualpa came in, and stopped before
him as if for speech.
“You have somewhat to say,” said the 'tzin, kindly.
“Speak.”
“A word, good 'tzin, a single word. Io' lies upon his
mantle; he is weary, and sleeps well. I am weary, but cannot
sleep. I suffer —”
“What?” asked the 'tzin.
“Discontent.”
“Discontent!”
“O 'tzin, to follow you and win your praise has been
my greatest happiness; but as yet I have done nothing by
myself. I pray you, give me liberty to go where I please,
if only for a day.”
“Where would you go?”
“Where so many have tried and failed, — over the wall,
into the palace.”
There was a long silence, during which the supplicant
looked on the floor, and the master at him.
“I think I understand you,” the latter at length said.
“To-morrow I will give you answer. Go now.”
Hualpa touched the floor with his palm, and left the
chamber. The 'tzin remained thoughtful, motionless. An
hour passed.
“Over the wall, into the palace!” he said, musingly.
“Not for country, not for glory, — for Nenetzin. Alas,
poor lad! From his life she has taken the life. Over the
wall into the — Sun. To-morrow comes swiftly; good or
ill, the gifts it brings are from the gods. Patience!”
And upon the step he spread his mantle, and slept, muttering,
“Over the wall, into the palace, and she has not
called him! Poor lad!”
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE BATTLE OF THE MANTAS.
THE report of a gun awoke the 'tzin in the morning.
The great uproar of the assault, now become familiar
to him, filled the chamber. He knelt on the step and prayed,
for there was a cloud upon his spirit, and over the idol's stony
face there seemed to be a cloud. He put on his helm and
mantle; at the door Hualpa offered him his arms.
“No,” he said, “bring me those we took from the
stranger.”
Hualpa marked the gravity of his manner, and with a
rising heart and a smile, the first seen on his lips for many
a day, he brought a Spanish shield and battle-axe, and gave
them to him.
Then the din below, bursting out in greater volume, drew
the 'tzin to the verge of the temple. The warriors made
way for him reverently. He looked down into the square,
and through a veil of smoke semilucent saw Cortes and his
gate. The gate stood open, and a crowd of the Tlascalans were
pouring out of the portal, hauling one of the towers whose
construction had been the mystery of the days last passed;
they bent low to the work, and cheered each other with their
war-cries; yet the manta — so called by Cortes — moved
slowly, as if loath to leave. In the same manner the other
tower was drawn out of the court; then, side by side, both
were started down the street, which they filled so nearly
that room was hardly left for the detachments that guarded
the Tlascalans on the flanks.
The fighting ceased, and silently the enemies stared at the
spectacle, — such power is there in curiosity.
At sight of the structures, rolling, rocking, rumbling, and
creaking dismally in every wheel, Cortes' eyes sparkled fire-like
through his visor. The 'tzin, on the other hand, was disturbed
and anxious, although outwardly calm; for the objects
of the common wonder were enclosed on every side,
and he knew as little what they contained as of their use
and operation.
Slowly they rolled on, until past the intersection of the
streets; there they stopped. Right and left of them were
beautiful houses covered with warriors for the moment converted
into spectators. A hush of expectancy everywhere
prevailed. The 'tzin shaded his eyes with his hand, and
leant eagerly forward. Suddenly, from the sides of the
machine next the walls, masked doors dropped out, and guns,
charged to the muzzle, glared over the house-tops, then swept
them with fire.
A horrible scream flew along the street and up to the
azoteas of the temple; at the same time, by ladders extended
to the coping of the walls, the Christians leaped on the roofs,
like boarders on a ship's deck, and mastered them at once;
whereupon they returned, and were about taking in the ladders,
other, shouted,—
“Ordas! Avila! Mirad! Where are the torches I gave
ye? Out again! Leave not a stone to shelter the dogs!
Leave nothing but ashes! Pronto, pronto!”
The captains answered promptly. With flambeaux of
resinous pine and cotton, they fired all the wood-work of the
interior of the buildings. Smoke burst from the doors and
windows; then the detachments retreated, and were rolled
on without the loss of a man.
Behind the mantas there was a strong rear-guard of infantry
and artillery; with which, and the guards on the
flanks, and the cavaliers forcing way at the front, it seemed
impossible to avert, or even interrupt, an attack at once so
novel and successful.
The smoke from the burning houses, momentarily thickening
and widening, was seen afar, and by the heathen hailed
with cries of alarm: not so Cortes; riding everywhere, in
the van, to the rear, often stopping by the mantas, which he
regarded with natural affection, as an artist does his last
work, he tasted the joy of successful genius. The smoke
rising, as it were, to Heaven, carried up his vows not to
stop until the city, with all its idolatries, was a heap of
ashes and lime, — a holocaust to the Mother such as had
never been seen. The cheeriness of his constant cry,
“Christo, Christo y Santiago!” communicated to his people,
and they marched laughing and fighting.
Opposition had now almost ceased; at the approach of
the mantas, the house-tops were given up without resistance.
A general panic appeared to have seized the pagans; they
even vacated the street, so that the cavaliers had little else to
do than ride leisurely, turning now and then to see the fires
behind them, and the tall machines come lumbering on.
As remarked, when the mantas stopped at the intersection
the time had come to make their use manifest; he saw a
door drop, and the jet of flame and smoke leap from a gun;
he heard the cry of agony from the house-tops, and the
deeper cry from all the people; to the chiefs around him he
said, with steady voice, and as became a leader, —
“Courage, friends! We have them now. Malinche is
mad to put his people in such traps. Lord Hualpa, go round
the place of combat and see that the first bridge is impassable;
for there, unless the towers have wings, and can
fly, they must stop. And to you, Io',” he spoke to the lad
tenderly, “I give a command and sacred trust. Stay here,
and take care of the gods.”
Io' kissed his hand, and said, fervently, “May the gods
care for me as I will for them!”
To other chiefs, calling them by name, he gave directions
for the renewal of the assault on the palace, now weakened
by the sortie, and for the concentration of fresh companies
in the rear of the enemy, to contest their return.
“And now, my good lord,” he said to a cacique, gray-headed,
but of magnificent frame, “you have a company of
Tezcucans, formerly the guards of king Cacama's palace.
Bring them, and follow me. Come.”
A number of houses covering quite half a square were by
this time on fire. Those of wood burned furiously; the
morning, however, was almost breathless, so that the cinders
did little harm. On the left side of the street stood a building
of red stone, its front profusely carved, and further
ornamented with a marble portico, — a palace, in fact, massively
built, and somewhat higher than the mantas. Its
entrances were barricaded, and on the roof, where an
enemy might be looked for, there was not a spear, helm,
or sign of life, except some fan-palms and long bananabranches.
Before the stately front the mantas were at length
and the ladder fixed, and Avila, who had the command,
started with his followers to take possession and apply the
torch. Suddenly, the coping of the palace-front flamed with
feathered helms and points of bronze.
Avila was probably as skilful and intrepid as any of Cortes'
captains; but now he was surprised: directly before him
stood Guatamozin, whom every Spaniard had come to know
and respect as the most rodoubted of all the warriors of
Anahuac; and he shone on the captain a truly martial figure,
confronting him with Spanish arms, a shield with a face of
iron and a battle-axe of steel. Avila hesitated; and as he
did so, the end of the ladder was lifted from the wall, poised
a moment in the air, then flung off.
The 'tzin had not time to observe the effect of the fall, for
a score of men came quickly up, bringing a beam of wood as
long and large as the spar of a brigantine; a trailing rope at
its further end strengthened the likeness. Resting the beam
on the coping of the wall, at a word, they plunged it forward
against the manta, which rocked under the blow. A yell
of fear issued from within. The Tlascalans strove to haul
the machine away, but the Tezcucans from their height
tossed logs and stones upon them, crushing many to death,
and putting the rest in such fear that their efforts were vain.
Meantime, the beam was again shot forward over the coping,
and with such effect that the roof of the manta sprang from
its fastenings, and nearly toppled off.
The handiwork so rudely treated was not as stout as the
ships Martin Lopez sailed on the lake. It was simply a
square tower, two stories high, erected on wheels. The
frame was enclosed with slabs, pinned on vertically, and
pierced with loopholes. On the sides there were apertures
defended by doors. The roof, sloping hip-fashion, had an
outer covering of undressed skins as protection against fire.
from the drag-ropes; in the second story there was a gun,
some arquebusiers, and a body of pikemen to storm the
house-tops; so that altogether the contrivance could hardly
stand hauling over the street, much less a battery like that
it was then receiving. At the third blow it became an untenable
wreck.
“Avila!” cried Cortes. “Where art thou?”
The good captain, with four of his bravest men, lay insensible,
if not dead, under the ladder.
“Mercy, O Mother of God, mercy!” groaned Cortes;
next moment he was himself again.
“What do ye here, men? Out and away before these
timbers tumble and crush ye!”
One man stayed.
“The gun, Señor, the gun!” he protested.
Spurring close to the door, Cortes said, “As thou art a
Christian, get thee down, comrade, and quickly. I can better
spare the gun than so good a gunner.”
Then the beam came again, and, with a great crash, tore
away the side of the manta. The gun rolled backward, and
burst through the opposite wall of the room. The veteran
disappeared.
By this time all eyes were turned to the scene. The
bowmen and arquebusiers in the column exerted themselves
to cover their unfortunate comrades. Upon the neighboring
houses a few infidels, on the watch, yelled joyously, —
“The 'tzin! the 'tzin!” From them the shout, spread through
the cowering army, became, indeed, a battle-cry significant
of success.
To me, good reader, the miracles of the world, if any
there be, are not the things men do in masses, but the sublimer
things done by one man over the many; they testify
most loudly of God, since without him they could not
heathen; nevertheless, without the 'tzin his country had
perished that morning. Back to the roofs came the defenders,
into the street poured the companies again; no
leisure now for the cavaliers. With the other manta Ordas
moved on gallantly, but the work was hard; at some
houses he failed, others he dared not attack. From front
to rear the contest became a battle. In the low places of
the street and pavement the blood flowed warm, then cooled
in blackening pools. The smoke of the consuming houses,
distinguishable from that of the temples, collected into a
cloud, and hung wide-spread over the combat. The yells of
Christians and infidels, fusing into a vast monotone, roared
like the sea. Twice Mesa went to the front, — the cavaliers
had need of him, — twice he returned to the rear.
The wrath of the Aztecs seemed especially directed against
the Tlascalans tugging at the ropes of the manta; as a consequence,
their quilted armor was torn to rags, and so many
of them were wounded, so many killed, that at every stoppage
the wheels were more difficult to start; and to make
the movement still more slow and uncertain, the carcasses of
the dead had to be rolled or carried out of the way; and
the dead, sooth to say, were not always Aztecs.
Luis Marin halted to breathe.
“Ola, compañero! What dost thou there?”
“By all the saints!” answered Alvarado, on foot, tightening
his saddle-girth. “Was ever the like? It hath been
strike, strike, — kill, kill, — for an hour. I am dead in the
right arm from finger to shoulder. And now here is a buckle
that refuseth its work. Caramba! My glove is slippery
with blood!”
And so step by step, — each one bought with a life, — the
Christians won their way to the first bridge: the floor was
gone! Cortes reined his horse, bloody from hoof to frontlet,
a square gained! The water, never so placid, was the utmost
limit of his going. He looked at the manta, now, like that
of Avila, a mocking failure. He looked again, and a blasphemy
beyond the absolution of Olmedo, I fear, broke the
clenching of his jaws, — not for the machines, or the hopes
they had raised, but the days their construction lost him.
As he looked, through a rift in the cloud still rising along
the battle's track, he saw the great temple; gay banners and
gorgeous regalia, all the splendor of barbaric war, filled that
view, and inspired him. To the cavaliers, close around and
in waiting, he turned. The arrows smote his mail and
theirs, yet he raised his visor: the face was calm, even smiling,
for the will is a quality apart from mind and passion.
“We will go back, gentlemen,” he said. “The city is on
fire, — enough for one day. And hark ye, gentlemen. We
have had enough of common blood. Let us go now and see
of what the heathen gods are made.”
His hearers were in the mood; they raised their shields
and shouted, —
“To the temple! To the temple! For the love of
Christ, to the temple!”
The cry sped down the column; and as the men caught its
meaning they faced about of their own will. Wounds, weariness,
and disappointments were forgotten; the rudest soldier
became a zealot on the instant. Al templo! Adelante, adelante!
rose like a new chorus, piercing the battle's monotone.
Cortes stood in his stirrups, and lo! the enemy, ranked
close, like corn in the full ear, yet outreaching his vision, —
plumed, bannered, brilliant, and terrible.
“Close and steady, swords of the Church! What ye see
is but grass for the cutting. Yonder is the temple we seek.
Follow me. Adelante! Christo y Santiago!”
So saying, he spurred in deep amongst the infidels.
9. CHAPTER IX.
OVER THE WALL, — INTO THE PALACE.
THE duty Hualpa had been charged with by the 'tzin
was not difficult of performance; for the bridges of
the capital, even those along the beautiful street, were much
simpler structures than they appeared. When he had seen
the balustrades and flooring and the great timbers that
spanned the canal — the first one south of the old palace —
torn from their places, and hauled off by the canoemen whom
he had collected for the purpose, he returned to the temple
to rejoin his master.
The assault upon the palace, when he reached that point,
was more furious than at any previous time. The companies
in the street were fighting with marvellous courage, while the
missiles from the azoteas and westward terraces of the temple,
and all the houses around, literally darkened the air.
Amidst the clamor Hualpa caught at intervals the cry, —
“The 'tzin, the 'tzin!” He listened, and all the loyal thousands
seemed shouting, “The 'tzin, the 'tzin! Al-a-lala!”
“Has anything befallen the 'tzin?” he asked of an acquaintance.
“Yes, thanks to Huitzil'! He has broken one of Malinche's
towers to pieces, and killed everybody in it.”
Hualpa's love quickened suddenly. “Blessed be all the
gods!” he cried, and, passing on, ascended to the azoteas.
It may have been the battle, full of invocations, as battles
always are; or it may have been that Io', in full enjoyment
of his command, and so earnest in its performance, stimulated
his ambition; or it may have been the influence of his peculiar
star, separated from him by so little, — something made him
restless and feverish. He talked with the caciques and
priests; he clomb the turret, and watched the smoke go
softly up, and hide itself in the deeper blue of the sky; with
Io', he stood on the temple's verge, and witnessed the fight,
at times using bow and sling; but nothing brought him relief.
The opportunity he had so long desired was here calling
him, and passing away. O for an hour of liberty to
enact himself!
Unable to endure the excitement, he started in search of
the 'tzin, knowing that, wherever he was, there was action,
if not opportunity. At that moment he saw a cacique in
the street plant a ladder against the wall of the palace not
far from the main gate. The Tlascalans defending at that
point tried to throw it off, but a shower of stones from
the terrace of the temple deluged them, and they disappeared.
Up went the cacique, up went his followers;
they gained the crest; then the conflict passed from
Hualpa's view.
“Io',” he said, “when the 'tzin comes back, tell him I have
gone to make a way for him through yon wall.”
“Have a care, comrade; have a care!”
Hualpa put an arm around him, and replied, smiling,
“There is one over the wall now: if he fears not, shall I?
And then,” — he whispered low, — “Nenetzin will despise
me if I come not soon.”
A dawning fell upon Io', and from that time he knew the
power of love.
“The gods go with you! Farewell.”
Hualpa set about his purpose deliberately. Near the door
of the presence-chamber there was a pile of trophies, shields,
arms, and armor of men and horses; he made some selections
from the heap, and carried them into the chamber.
and under his mantle a cuirass; and to some dead Spaniard
he was further beholden for a shield and battle-axe, — the
latter so called, notwithstanding it had a head like a hammer,
and a handle of steel pointed at the end and more than
a yard in length.
Thus prepared, he went down into the street, and forced
his way to the ladder planted near the gate; thence to the
crest of the wall. A hundred arrows splintered against his
shield, as he looked down upon the combat yet maintained
by the brave cacique at the foot of the banquette.
The wall, as I think I have elsewhere said, was built of
blocks of wrought stone, laid in cement only a little less
hard than the stone, and consequently impervious to any
battery against its base; at the same time, taken piece by
piece from the top, its demolition was easy. Hualpa paused
not; between the blocks he drove the pointed handle of his
axe: a moment, and down fell the capping-stone; another
followed, and another. Alike indifferent to the arrows of
the garrison and the acclamations of the witnesses outside,
looking neither here nor there, bending every faculty to the
task, he did in a few minutes what seemed impossible:
through a breach wide enough for the passage of a double
sedan, foemen within and without the wall saw each other.
And there was hastening thither of detachments. Up the
ladder and over the wall leaped the devoted infidels, nothing
deterred by waiting swords and lances; striking or
dying, they shouted, “The 'tzin, the 'tzin! Al-a-lala!”
Live or die, they strove to cover the steadfast workman in
the breach.
De Olid, at the time in charge of the palace, drew nigh,
attracted by the increasing uproar.
“Ye fools! Out on ye! See ye not that the dog is hiding
behind a Christian shield! Run, fly, bring a brace of
Swords and axes! The Mother for us all! Christo,
Christo!”
And on foot, and in full armor, he pushed into the press;
for, true to his training, he saw that the laborer behind the
shining shield was more worthy instant notice than the
hordes clambering over the wall.
Still the breach widened and deepened, and every rock
that tumbled from its place contributed to the roadway forming
on both sides of the wall to facilitate the attack. But
now the guns were coming, and the arquebusiers made haste
to plant their pieces, against which the good shield might
not defend. Suddenly Hualpa stood up, his surcoat whitened
with the dust of the mortar; without a word he descended
to the street: the work was done, — a way for the
'tzin was ready! Scarcely had he touched the pavement
before the guns opened; scarcely had the guns opened
before the gorge was crowded with infidels rushing in. The
palace, wanting the column absent with Cortes, was in danger.
To the one point every Christian was withdrawn;
even the sick and wounded staggered from the hospital to
repel the attack. With all his gallantry, De Olid was beaten
slowly back to the house. Cursed he the infidels, prayed
he the return of Cortes, — still he went back. In the midst
of his perplexity, a messenger came to tell him the enemy was
breaking through the wall of the western front.
Hualpa had not only made another breach, — De Olid
found him inside the enclosure, with a support already too
strong for the Tlascalans.
The fight the good captain was called to witness was that
of native against native; and, had the peril been less demanding,
he would have enjoyed its novelties. An astonishing
rattle of shields and spears, mixed with the clash of
maquahuitls, and a deafening outcry from the contending
with stones and flying javelins and tossing banners. Quarter
was not once asked. The grim combatants engaged each
other to conquer or die. Hither and thither danced the
priests, heedless of the danger, now cursing the laggards,
now blessing the brave. And at times so shrilly blew the
conchs that where they were nothing might be heard but the
shriller medley of war-cry answering war-cry.
I doubt if the captain took other note of the fight than
its menace to the palace; and if he prayed the return of
Cortes a little more fervently than before, it was not from
fear, or confusion of mind; for straightway he appealed to
that arm which had been the last and saving resort of the
Christians in many a former strait. Soon every disengaged
gun was in position before the western door of the palace,
loaded full of stones not larger than bird's-eggs, and trained,
through the crowd, upon the breach, — and afterwards there
were those who charged that the captain did not wait for all
his Tlascalans to get out of the way. The guns opened with
united voices; palace and paved earth trembled; and the
smoke, returning upon the pieces, enveloped everything, insomuch
that the door of the house was not to be seen, nor
was friend distinguishable from enemy.
If my reader has been in battle, he knows the effect of
that fire too well to require description of me; he can hear
the cries of the wounded, and see the ghastly wrecks on the
pavement; he can see, too, the recoil of the Aztecs, and the
rush of the Tlascalans, savagely eager to follow up their advantage.
I leave the scene to his fancy, and choose rather
to go with a warrior who, availing himself of the shrouding
of the smoke, pushed through the throng behind the guns,
and passed into the palace. His steps were hurried, and he
looked neither to the right nor left; those whom he brushed
out of the way had but time to see him pass, or to catch an
shield and battle-axe, a close cap of steel, and the gleam
of a corselet under the colorless tatters of a surcoat of feather-work,
—a figure impossible to identify as friend or foe. The
reader, however, will recognize Hualpa coming out of the
depths of the battle, but going — whither?
Once before, as may be remembered, he had been in the ancient
house, — the time when, in a fit of shame and remorse,
he had come to lay his lordship and castle at the king's feet;
then he had entered by the eastern portal, and passed to the
royal presence under guidance: this time his entry was from
the west, and he was alone, and unacquainted with the vast
interior, its halls, passages, courts, and chambers. In his first
visit, moreover, peace had been the rule, and he could not
go amiss for friends: now the palace was a leaguered citadel,
and he could hardly go amiss for enemies.
Whatever his purpose, he held boldly on. It is possible
he counted on the necessities of the battle requiring, as in
fact they did, the presence of every serviceable man of the
garrison. The few he met passed him in haste, and without
question. He avoided the courts and occupied rooms. In
the heart of the building he was sensible that the walls and
very air vibrated to the roar without; and as the guns in
the eastern front answered those in the western, he was advised
momentarily of the direction in which he was proceeding,
and that his friends still maintained the combat.
Directly three men passed clad in nequen; they were talking
earnestly, and scarcely noticed him; after them came
another, very old, and distinguished by a green maxtlatl over
his white tunic, — one of the king's councillors.
“Stay, uncle,” said Hualpa, “stay; I have a question
to ask you.”
The old man seemed startled.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
Hualpa did not appear to hear him, but asked, “Is not the
princess Nenetzin with the king, her father?”
“Follow this hall to its end,” replied the ancient, coldly.
“She is there, but not with the king, her father. Who is
he,” he continued, after a pause, — “who is he that asks for
the false princess?”
With a groan Hualpa passed on.
The hall ended in a small patio, which, at sight, declared
itself a retreat for love. The walls were finished with a confusion
of arabesque moulding, brilliantly and variously
colored; the tracery around the open doors and windows was
a marvel of the art; there were flowers on the floor, and in
curious stands, urns, and swinging baskets; there were also
delicate vines, and tropical trees dwarfed for the place,
amongst which one full grown banana lifted its long branches
of velvet green, and seemed to temper the light with dewy
coolness; in the centre, there was a dead fountain. Indeed,
the patio could have been but for the one purpose. Here,
walled in from the cares of empire, where only the day was
bold enough to come unbidden, the wise Axaya' and his less
fortunate successors, Tecociatzin and Avizotl, forgot their
state, and drank their cups of love, and were as other men.
All the beauty of the place, however, was lost on Hualpa.
He saw only Nenetzin. She was sitting, at the time, in a
low sedilium, her white garments faintly tinted by the scarlet
stripes of a canopy extended high overhead, to protect her
from the too ardent sun.
At the sound of his sandals, she started; and as he approached
her, she arose in alarm. In sooth, his toilette was
not that most affected for the wooing of women; he brought
with him the odor of battle; and as he knelt but a little way
from her, she saw there was blood upon his hands, and upon
the axe and shield he laid beside him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He took off the steel cap and shapeless panache, and looked
up in her face.
“The lord Hualpa!” she exclaimed. Then a thought
flashed upon her mind, and with terror in every feature, she
cried, “Ah, you have taken the palace! And the Tonatiah?”
— she clasped her hands despairingly, — “dead? a captive?
Where is he? I will save him. Take me to him.”
At these words, the uncertain expression with which he
had looked up to her upon baring his head changed to utter
hopelessness. The hurried sentences tore his heart, like
talons. For this he had come to her through so much
peril! For this he was then braving death at her feet! His
head sunk upon his breast, and he said, —
“The palace is not ours. The Tonatiah yet lives, and is
free.”
With a sigh of relief, she resumed her seat, asking, —
“How came you here?”
He answered without raising his eyes, “The keepers of the
palace are strong; they can stay the thousands, but they
could not keep me out.”
The face of the listener softened; she saw his love, and
all his heroism, but said, coldly, —
“I have heard that wise men do such things only of
necessity.”
“I do not pretend to wisdom,” he replied. “Had I been
wise, I would not have loved you. Since our parting at
Chapultepec, where I was so happy, I have thought you
might be a prisoner here, and in my dreams I have heard
you call me. And a little while ago, on the temple, I
said to Io', `Nenetzin will despise me, if I come not soon.'
Tell me, O Nenetzin, that you are a prisoner, and I will take
you away. Tell me that the stories told of you on the
streets are not true, and —”
“What stories?” she asked.
“Alas, that it should be mine to tell them! And to you,
Nenetzin, my beautiful!”
With a strong effort, he put down the feeling, and went
on, —
“There be those who say that the good king, your father,
is in this prison by your betrayal; they say, too, that you
are the keeper of a shrine unknown to the gods of Anahuac;
and yet more shamelessly, they say you abide here with the
Tonatiah, unmindful of honor, father, or gods known or unknown.
Tell me, O Nenetzin, tell me, I pray you, that
these are the tales of liars. If you cannot be mine, at least
let me go hence with cause to think you in purity like the
snow on the mountain-top. My heart is at your feet, — O
crush me not utterly!”
Thereupon, she arose, with flushed face and flashing eyes,
never so proud, never so womanly.
“Lord Hualpa, were you more or less to me than you are,
I would make outcry, and have you sent to death. You
cannot understand me; yet I will answer — because of the
love which brought you here, I will answer.”
She went into a chamber, and returning, held up the iron
cross, more precious to her, I fear, as the gift of Alvarado
than as the symbol of Christ.
“Look, lord Hualpa! This speaks to me of a religion
better than that practised in the temples, and of a God
mightier than all those known in Anahuac, — a God whom
it is useless to resist, who may not be resisted, — the only
God. There, in my chamber, is an altar to Him, upon
which rests only this cross and such flowers as I can gather
here in the morning; that is the shrine of which you have
heard upon the street. I worship at no other. As to the
king, I did come and tell the strangers of the attack he
ordered. Lord Hualpa, to me, as is the destiny of every
woman, the hour came to choose between love and father. I
not the king safe?”
At that moment, the noise which had all the time been
heard in the patio, as of a battle up in the air, swelled
trebly loud. The tendrils of the vines shook; the floor
trembled.
“Hark!” she said, with an expression of dread. “Is he
not safer than that other for whom I forsook him? Yet
I thought to save them both; and saved they shall be!” she
added, with a confident smile. “The God I worship can
save them, and He will.”
Then she became silent; and as he could tell by her face
that she was struggling with a painful thought, he waited,
listening intently. At length she spoke, this time with
downcast eyes: —
“It would be very pleasant, O Hualpa, to have you go
away thinking me pure as snow on the mountain-top. And
if — if I am not, — then in this cross” — and she kissed the
symbol tearfully — “there is safety for me. I know there is
a love that can purify all things.”
The sensibilities are not alike in all persons; but it is
not true, as some philosophers think, that infidels, merely
because they are such, are incapable of either great joy or
great grief. The mother of El Chico reviled him because he
took his last look at Granada through tears; not less poignant
was the sorrow of Hualpa, looking at his love, by her
own confession lost to him forever; his head drooped, and
he settled down and fell forward upon his face, crushed by
the breath of a woman, — he whom a hundred shields had
not sufficed to stay!
For a time nothing was heard in the patio but the battle.
Nenetzin stirred not; she was in the mood superinduced by
pity and remorse, when the mind merges itself in the heart,
and is lost in excess of feeling.
At length the spell was broken. A woman rushed in,
clapping her hands joyfully, and crying, —
“Be glad, be glad, O Nenetzin! Malinche has come
back, and we are saved!”
And more the Doña Marina would have said, but her eyes
fell upon the fallen man, and she stopped.
Nenetzin told his story, — the story women never tire of
hearing.
“If he stays here, he dies,” said Marina, weeping.
“He shall not die. I will save him too,” said Nenetzin;
and she went to him, and took his hands, bloody as they
were, and, by gentle words, woke him from his stupor.
Mechanically he took his cap, shield, and mace, and followed
her, — he knew not whither.
And she paused not until he was safely delivered to
Maxtla, in the quarters occupied by the king.
10. CHAPTER X.
THE WAY THROUGH THE WALL.
AL TEMPLO, al templo! to the temple!” shouted
Cortes, as he charged the close ranks of the enemy.
“Al templo!” answered the cavaliers, plunging forward in
chivalric rivalry.
And from the column behind them rolled the hoarse echo,
with the words of command superadded, —
“Al templo! Adelante, adelante! — forward!
Not a Spaniard there but felt the inspiration of the cry;
felt himself a soldier of Christ, marching to a battle of the
gods, the true against the false; yet the way was hard,
harder than ever; so much so, indeed, that the noon came
old palace.
The first object to claim attention there was the temple
against which the bigotry of the Christians had been so suddenly
and shrewdly directed, — shrewdly, because in the
glory of its conquest the failure of the mantas was certain to
be forgotten. In such intervals of the fight as he could
snatch, the leader measured the pile with a view to the
attack. Standing in his stirrups, he traced out the path to
its summit, beginning at the gate of the coatapantli, then up
the broad stairs, and around the four terraces to the azoteas,
— a distance of nearly a mile, the whole crowded with
warriors, whose splendid regalia published them lords and
men of note, in arms to die, if need be, for glory and the
gods. As he looked, Sandoval rode to him.
“Turn thine eyes hither, Señor, — to the palace, the
palace!'
Cortes dropped back into his saddle, and glanced that
way.
“By the Mother of Christ, they have broken through
the wall!”
He checked his horse.
“Escobar,” he said, calmly, through his half-raised visor,
“take thou one hundred men, the last in the column, and
attack the temple. Hearest thou? Kill all thou findest!
Nay, I recollect it is a people with two heads, of which I
have but one. Bring me the other, if thou canst find him.
I mean the butcher they call the high priest. And more,
Señor Alonzo: when thou hast taken the idolatrous mountain,
burn the towers, and fear not to tumble the bloody
gods into the square. Thy battle will be glorious. On thy
side God, the Son, and Mother! Thou canst not fail.”
“And thou, Olea,” he added to another, “get thee
down the street, and hasten Mesa and his supports. Tell
captain Christobal hath scarce room to lift his axe. And
further, — as speed is everything now, — bid Ordas out with
the gun, and fire the manta, which hath done its work.
Spare not thy horse!”
With the last word, Cortes shut his visor, and, griping his
axe, spurred to the front, shouting, —
“To the palace, gentlemen! for love of Christ and good
comrades. Rescue, rescue!”
Down the column sped the word, — then forward resistlessly,
through the embattled gate, into the enclosure;
and none too soon, for, as Cortes had said, though at the
time witless of the truth, the Aztecs were threatening the
very doors of the palace.
Escobar, elated with the task assigned him, arranged his
men, and made ready for the assault. The infidels beheld
his preparation with astonishment. All eyes, theretofore
bent upon the conflict in the palace yard, now fixed upon
the little band so boldly proposing to scale the sacred
heights. A cry came up the street: “The 'tzin, the 'tzin!”
then the 'tzin himself came; and as he passed through
the gate of the coatapantli, the thousands recognized him,
and breathed freely. “The 'tzin has come! The gods are
safe!” so they cheered each other.
The good captain led his men to the gate of the coatapantli.
With difficulty he gained entrance. As if to madden the
infidels, already fired by a zeal as great as his own, the
dismal thunder of the great drum of Huitzil' rolled down
from the temple, overwhelming all other sounds. Slowly he
penetrated the enclosure; closely his command followed
him; yet not all of them; before he reached the stairway he
was fighting for, the hundred were but ninety.
Twenty minutes, — thirty: at last Escobar set his foot on
the first step of the ascent. There he stopped; a shield of
blow. When he saw light again, he was outside the sacred
wall, borne away by his retreating countrymen, of whom not
one re-entered the palace unwounded.
Cortes, meantime, with sword and axe, cleared the palace
of assailants; and, as if the day's work were done, he
prepared to dismount. Don Christobal, holding his stirrup,
said, —
“Cierto, Señor, thou art welcome. I do indeed kiss thy
hand. I thank thee.”
“Not so, captain, not so. By my conscience, we are the
debtors! I will hear nothing else. It is true we came not a
moment too soon,” — he glanced at the breach in the wall,
and shook his head gravely, — “but — I speak what may
not be gainsaid — thou hast saved the palace.”
More he would have said in the same strain, but that a
sentinel on the roof cried out, —
“Ola, Señores!”
“What wouldst thou?” asked Cortes, quickly.
“I am an old soldier, Señor Hernan, —”
“To the purpose, varlet, to the purpose!”
“— whom much experience hath taught not to express
himself hastily; therefore, if thy orders were well
done, Señor, whither would our comrades over the way be
going?”
“To the top of the temple,” said Cortes, gravely, while all
around him laughed.
“Then I may say safely, Señor, that they will go round
the world before they arrive there. They come this way fast
as men can who have to —”
A long, exulting cry from the infidels cut the speech short;
and the party, turning to the temple, saw it alive with
waving sashes and tossing shields.
“To horse, gentlemen!” said Cortes, quietly, but with
will now tilt with him. Let the trumpets be sounded!
Muster the army! God's service hath become our necessity.
Haste ye!”
Out of the gate, opened to receive Escobar and his bruised
followers, marched three hundred chosen Christians, with as
many thousand Tlascalans. In their midst went Olmedo,
under his gown a suit of armor, in his hand a lance, and on
that a brazen crucifix. Other ensign there was not. Cortes
and his cavalry led the column, which was of all the arms
except artillery; that remained with De Olid to take care
of the palace.
And never was precaution more timely; for hardly had
the gate closed upon the outgoers, before the good captain
sent his garrison to the walls, once more menaced by the
infidels.
The preparations of Escobar, as we have seen, had been
under Io's view; so the prince, divining the object, drew
after him a strong support, and hastened to keep the advantage
of the stairways. On one of the eastern terraces he met
the 'tzin ascending. There was hurried salutation between
them.
“Look you for Hualpa?” asked Io', observing the 'tzin
search the company inquiringly.
“Yes. He should be here.”
The boy's face and voice fell.
“I would he were, good 'tzin. He left me on the azoteas.
With the look of one who had devoted himself, he embraced
me. His last words were, `Tell the 'tzin I have gone to make
for him a way into the palace.'” And thereupon Io' told the
story through, simply and sorrowfully; at the end the
listener kissed him, and said, —
“I will find the way he made for me.”
There was a silence, very brief, however, for a burst of
tzin, recalled to himself, gave orders.
“Care of the gods is mine now. Leave me these friends,
and go, and with the people at command, bring stones
and timbers, all you find, and heap them ready for use on
the terraces at the head of each stairway. Go quickly, so
may you earn the double blessing of Huitzil' and Tezca'!”
In a little time the 'tzin stood upon the last step of the
lowest stairway; nor did he lift hand until Escobar, half
spent with exertion, confronted him shield to shield. The
result has been told.
And then were shown the qualities which, as a fighting
man, raised the 'tzin above rivalry amongst his people. The
axe in his hand was but another form of the maquahuitl;
and that his shield was of the Christian style mattered
not, — he was its perfect master. With a joyous cry, he
rushed upon the arms outstretched to save the fallen captain;
played his shield like a shifting mirror; rose and fell the
axe, now in feint, now in foil, but always in circles swifter
than eye could follow; striking a victim but once, he amazed
and dazzled the Spaniards, as in the Moorish wars El Zagel,
the Moor, amazed and dazzled their fathers. Nor did he
want support. His followers, inspired by his example, struggled
to keep pace with him. On the flanks poured the masses
of his countrymen, in blind fury, content if, with their naked
hands, they could clutch the weapons that slew them. Such
valor was not to be resisted by the lessening band of
Christians, who yielded, at first inch by inch, then step by
step; at length, in disorder, almost in rout, they were driven
from the sacred enclosure.
The victory was decided; the temple was safe, and the
insult punished! The air shook with the deep music of the
drum; in the streets the companies yelled as if drunk; the
temple was beautiful with waving sashes and tossing shields
of the people, the priests appeared and danced their
dance of triumph, — a horrible saturnalia. The fight had
been a trial of power between the gods Christian and Aztec,
and lo, Huitzil' was master!
The 'tzin felt the sweetness of the victory, and his breast
filled with heroic impulses. Standing in the gate of the
coatapantli, he saw the breach Hualpa had made in the wall
enclosing the palace, noticed that the ascent to the base of
the gorge was easy, and the gorge itself now wide enough
to admit of the passage of several men side by side. The
temptation was strong, the possibilities alluring, and he fixed
his purpose.
“It is the way he made for me, and I will tread it. Help
me, O God of my fathers!”
So he resolved, so he prayed.
And forthwith messengers ran to the chiefs on the four
sides of the palace with orders for them to pass the wall.
From the dead Spaniards the armor was stript, and arms
taken; and the robbers, fourteen caciques, men notable for
skill and courage, stood up under cuirass, and helm or
morion, and with pike and battle-axe of Christian manufacture,
covered, nevertheless, with pagan trappings.
Still standing in the gateway, the 'tzin saw the companies
in the street begin the assault. Swelled their war-cries as
never before, for the inspiration of the victory was upon
them also; rattled the tambours, brayed the conchs, danced
the priests, and from the temple and housetops poured the
missiles in a darkening cloud. Within his view a hundred
ladders were planted, and crowded with eager climbers. At
the gorge of the breach men struggled with each other to
make the passage first. He called a messenger: —
“Take this ring to the prince Io',” he said. “Tell him
the house of the gods is once more in his care.” Then to
countrymen!”
With that, he walked swiftly to the breach; calm, collected,
watchful, silent, he walked. His companions shouted
his war-cry. From mouth to mouth it passed, thrilling and
inspiring, —
“Up, up, Tlateloco! Up, up, over the wall! The 'tzin
is with us!”
Meantime the beseiged were not idle; over the crest of
the parapet the Tlascalans fought successfully; through the
ports and embrasures the Christians kept up their fire of guns
great and small. Nevertheless, to the breach the 'tzin went
without stopping.
“Clear the way!” he cried.
The guns within made answer; a shower of blood
drenched him from head to foot. Except of the dead, the
way was clear! A rush through the slippery gorge, — a
shout, — and he was inside the enclosure, backed by his
caciques. And as he went in, Cortes passed out, marching
to storm the temple.
No doubt or hesitation on the 'tzin's part now; no looking
about, uncertain what to do, while bowmen and gunners
made a mark of him. He spoke to his supporters, and with
them faced to the right, and cleared the banquette of Tlascalans.
Over the wall, thus cleared, and through the breach
leaped his people; and as they came, the iron shields covered
them, and they multiplied rapidly.
About eight hundred Spaniards, chiefly Narvaez' men, defended
the palace. They fought, but not with the spirit of
the veterans, and were pushed slowly backward. As they
retired, wider grew the space of undefended wall; like waves
over a ship's side, in poured the companies; the Aztecs
fell by scores, yet they increased by hundreds.
Again the sick and wounded staggered from their quarters;
volleys shook the palace, and wrapped it in curtains of
smoke, whiter and softer than bridal veils: still the infidels
continued to master the walls and the space within. By
and by the gates fell into their hands; and then, indeed, all
seemed lost to the Christians.
The stout heart of the good Captain Christobal was well
tempered for the trial. To the windows and lesser entrances
of the buildings he sent guards, stationing them inside; then,
in front of the four great doors, he drew his men back, and
fought on, so that the palace was literally girt with a belt
of battle.
An hour like that I write of seems a long time to a combatant;
on this occasion, however, one there was, not a
combatant, to whom, possibly, the time seemed much longer.
In his darkened chamber sat the king, neither speaking nor
spoken to, though surrounded by his court. He must have
heard the cries of his people; knowing them so near, in
fancy, at least, he must have seen their heroism and slaughter.
Had he no thought in sympathy with them? no
prayer for their success? no hope for himself even? Who
may answer? — so many there are dead in the midst of life.
At length the 'tzin became weary of the mode of attack,
which, after all, was but a series of hand-to-hand combats
along lengthened lines, that might last till night, or, indeed,
as long as there were men to fill the places of the fallen.
To the companies crowding the conquered space before the
eastern front of the palace, he passed an order: a simultaneous
forward movement from the rear took place; the
intervals between the ranks were closed up; a moment of
fusion, — a pressure; then a welding together of the whole
mass followed. After that words may not convey the scene.
The unfortunates who happened to be engaged were first
pushed, then driven, and finally shot forward, like dead
lines met; blood flew as from a hundred fountains; men,
impaled on opposing weapons, died, nailed together face to
face. As the only chance for life, very many fell down, and
were smothered.
The defenders broke in an instant. Back, back they
went, — back to the guns, which, for a time, served as
breakwaters to the wave; then past the guns, almost to
the wall, forced there by the awful impetus of the rush.
The truly great leaders of men are those who, invoking
storms, stand out and brave them when they come. Such
was Guatamozin. The surge I have so faintly described
caught him foremost in the fighting line of his people, and
flung him upon his antagonists. With his shield he broke
the force of the collision; the cuirass saved him from their
points; close wedged amongst them, they could not strike
him. Tossed like so much drift, backward they went,
forward he. Numbers of them fell and disappeared. When,
at last, the impetus of the movement was nigh spent, he
found himself close by the principal door of the palace.
But one man stood before him, — a warrior with maquahuitl
lifted to strike. The 'tzin raised his shield, and caught the
blow; then, upon his knee, he looked up, and saw the
face, and heard the exulting yell, of — Iztlil', the Tezcucan!
Whirled the weapon again. The noble Aztec summoned
all his spirit; death glared upon him through the burning
eyes of his hated rival; up, clear to vision, rose all dearest
things, — gods, country, glory, love. Suddenly the raised arm
fell; down dropped the maquahuitl; and upon the shield
down dropped Iztlil' himself, carrying the 'tzin with him.
The Tezcucan seemed dead.
A friendly hand helped the 'tzin to his feet. He was conscious,
as he arose, of a strange calm in the air; the clamor
and furious stir of the combat were dying away; he stood
look at him. A shield not his own covered his breast; he
turned, and lo! the face of Hualpa!
“Whence came you?” asked the 'tzin.
“From the palace.”
“Thanks —”
“Not now, not now,” said Hualpa, in a low voice. “The
gods who permitted me to save you, O 'tzin, have not been
able to save themselves. Look! to the temple!”
His eyes followed Hualpa's directing finger, and the same
astonishment that held his enemies motionless around him,
the same horror that, in the full tide of successful battle,
had so instantly stayed his countrymen, seized him also.
He stood transfixed, — a man turned to stone!
The towers of the temple were in flames; and, yet more
awful, the image of Huitzil,' rolled to the verge of the
azoteas, was tottering to its fall! A thousand hands were
held up instinctively, — a groan, — a long cry, — and down
the stairway and terraces, grinding and crashing, thundered
the idol. Tezca' followed after, and the sacrificial stone;
then the religion of the Aztecs was ended forever.
As if to assure the great fact, when next the spectators
raised their eyes to the azoteas, lo! Olmedo and his crucifix!
The faithful servant of Christ had performed his mission;
he had burst the last gate, and gained the last mountain in
the way; and now, with bared head, and face radiant with
sublime emotion, he raised the symbol of salvation high
up in view of all the tribes, and, in the name of his Master,
and for his Master's Church, forever, by that simple ceremony,
took possession of the New World.
And marvellous to relate further, the tribes, awed if not
conquered, bowed their heads in peace. Even the companies
in the palace-yard marched out over their dead, and
gave up the victory so nearly won. Guatamozin and Hualpa
the defiance: as they went, not a word was spoken, not a
hand lifted. For the time, all was peace.
11. CHAPTER XI.
BATTLE IN THE AIR.
AS Cortes, at the head of his column, drew near the gate
of the coatapantli, he saw the inclosure and the terraces
on that side of the temple occupied by warriors, and
the edge of the azoteas above lined with pabas, chanting in
dismal harmony with the deep music of the great drum.
Ensigns and symbols of unknown meaning, and rich regalia
pranked the dull gray faces of the pile with holiday splendors.
Little note, however, gave he to the beautiful effect.
“God helping us,” he said to his cavaliers, — and with such
gravity that they knew him unusually impressed with the
task before them, — “God helping us, gentlemen, we will do
a deed now that hath no likeness in the wars of men. Commend
we ourselves each, and all who follow us, to the holy
Christ, who cometh yonder on the staff of Father Olmedo.”
So saying, he reversed his sword, and carried the crossed
handle softly and reverently to the bars of his helmet, and
all who heard him did likewise.
In front of the gate, under a shower of arrows, he stopped
to adjust the armlets of his shield, for his hand was yet sore;
then, settling in his saddle again, he spurred his horse
through the entrance into the enclosure.
Right into the mass waiting to receive him he broke,
and whom his sword left untouched the trained steed bore
down. After him charged the choicest spirits of the conquest,
that this time the fight was for God and His Church. And
so, with every thrust of sword and every plunge of horse,
out rang their cries.
“On, on, for love of Christ! Death to the infidels! Down
with the false gods!”
On the side of the infidels there was no yielding, for the
ground was holy ground to them. When their frail weapons
were broken, they flung themselves empty-handed upon the
nearest rider, or under the horses, and, dying even, tried to
hold fast locked the hoofs that beat them to death. In their
aid, the pavement became heaped with bodies, and so slippery
with blood that a number of the horses fell down; and, in
such cases, if the rescue came not quickly they and their
riders were lost. Indeed, so much did this peril increase
that Cortes, when his footmen were fairly in the yard, dismounted
the horsemen the better to wage the fight.
At length resistance ceased: the inclosure was won. The
marble floor bore awful evidences of the prowess of one party
and the desperation of the other.
The Christians took up their wounded, and carried them
tenderly to the shade, for the sun blazed down from the
cloudless sky.
Around Cortes gathered the captains, resting themselves.
“The Tlascalans must hold the yard,” he said, well pleased,
and with raised visor. “That charge I commit to thee,
Lugo.”
Lugo bared his face, and said, sullenly, —
“Thou knowest, Señor, that I am accustomed to obey thee
questionless; but this liketh me not. I —”
“By the love of Christ —”
“Even so, Señor,” said Lugo, interrupting him in turn.
“I feel bidden by love of Christ to go up, and help cast
down the accursed idols.”
The face of the crafty leader changed quickly.
“Ola, father!” he said. “Here is one malcontent, because
I would have him stay and take care of us while we
climb the stairways. What say'st thou?”
Olmedo answered solemnly, “What ye have in mind
now, Señores, — the disgrace of the false gods who abide
in this temple of abominations, — is what hath led us
here. And now that the end is at hand, the least circumstance
is to be noted; for the wise hear God as often
in the small voice as in the thunder. Doubt not, doubt
not; the prompting of the good captain is from Him.
Be this lower duty to the unassoilzied Tlascalans: go
we as the love of Christ calleth. Verily, he who doeth this
work well, though his sins be many as the sands of the sea,
yet shall he become as purity itself, and be blessed forever.
Take thy measures quickly, Señor, and let us be gone.”
“Amen, amen!” said the cavaliers; and Cortes, crossing
himself, hastened in person to make dispositions for the further
emprise.
The Tlascalans he set to hold the coatapantli from attack
without. To the arquebusiers and cross-bowmen he gave
orders to cover him with their fire while he climbed the
stairways and was driving the enemy around the terraces.
When the azoteas was gained, they were to ascend, and take
part in the crowning struggle for the sanctuaries. The cavalry,
already dismounted, were to go with him in the assault.
To the latter, upon rejoining them, he said, —
“In my judgment, gentlemen, the fighting we go to now is
of the kind wherein the sword is better than axe or lance;
therefore, put away all else.”
He took place at the head, with Alvarado and Sandoval
next him in the column.
“And thou, father?” he asked.
Olmedo raised his crucifix, and, looking up, said, —
“Hagase tu voluntad en la tierra asi como en el cielo.”[2]
Then to Cortes, “I will follow these, my children.”
“Forward, then! Christ with us, and all the saints!”
cried Cortes. “Adelante! Christo y Santiago!”
In a moment they were swiftly climbing the lower stairway
of the temple.
Meantime Io', from the azoteas, kept watch on the combats
below. Two figures charmed his gaze, — that of Cortes and
that of the 'tzin, — both, in their separate ways, moving forward
slowly but certainly. Before he thought of descending,
the Christians were in the precinct of the coatapantli, and
after them streamed the long line of Tlascalans.
As we have seen, the prince had been in battles, and more
than once felt the joyous frenzy nowhere else to be found;
but now a dread fell upon him. Did Malinche's dream of
conquest reach the gods? Again and again he turned to
the sanctuaries, but the divine wrath came not forth, — only
the sonorous throbs of the drum. Once he went into
the presence chamber, which was full of kneeling pabas.
The teotuctli stood before the altar praying. Io' joined in the
invocation; but miracle there was not, neither was there
help; for when he came out, all the yard around the temple
was Malinche's.
Then Io' comprehended that this attack, unlike Escobar's,
was of method; for the ways of succor, which were also those
of retreat, were all closed. The supreme trial had come
early in his career. His spirit arose; he saw himself the
stay of the religion of his fathers; the gods leaned upon
him. On the roof and terraces were some two thousand
warriors, the fighting children of the valley: Tezcucans,
with countless glorious memories to sustain their native
pride; Cholulans, eager to avenge the sack of their city and
the massacre of their countrymen; Aztecs, full of the
They would fight to the last man. He could trust them, as the
'tzin had trusted him. The struggle, moreover, besides being
of special interest on account of its religious character, would
be in mid-air, with the strangers and all the tribes and companies
as witnesses. So, with his caciques, he went down
to the landing at the top of the lower stairway.
A yell saluted Cortes when, at the head of the cavaliers,
he appeared on the steps, and, sword in hand and shield overhead,
commenced the perilous ascent. At the same time
javelins and spears began to rain upon the party from the
first terrace. Up they hurried. Half the height was gained
and not a man hurt, — not a foot delayed! Then, slowly
at first, but with longer leaps and increasing force, a block
of stone was started down the stairs. Fortunately, the
steps were broad, having been built for the accommodation of
processions. Down sped a warning cry; down as swiftly
plunged the danger. Olmedo saw three figures of men in
iron follow it headlong to the bottom; fast they fell, but not
too fast for his words of absolution; before the victims
touched the pavement, their sins were forgiven, and their
souls at rest in Paradise.
The stones and timbers placed on the landing by the 'tzin's
order were now laid hold of, and rolled and dragged to the
steps and hurled down. Thus ten Christians more were
slain. Even Cortes, deeming escape impossible, turned his
battle-cry into a prayer, and not in vain! From below, the
arquebusiers and cross-bowmen suddenly opened fire, which
they kept so close that, on the landing, the dead and
wounded speedily outnumbered the living.
“The saints are with us! Forward, swords of the Church!”
cried Cortes.
Before the infidels recovered from their panic, he passed
the last step, and stood upon the terrace. And there, first
zeal would not permit to retire.
The meeting — combat it can hardly be called — was very
brief. The blades of Io's maquahuitl broke at the first blow.
Cortes replied with a thrust of the sword, — quick, but true,
riving both the shield and the arm. A cacique dragged
the hapless boy out of reach of the second thrust, and took
his place before the conqueror.
The terrace so hardly gained was smoothly paved, and wide
enough for ten men to securely walk abreast; on the outer side
there was no railing or guard of any kind, nothing but a
descent of such height as to make a fall certainly fatal.
Four times the smooth, foot-worn pavement extended around
the temple, broken in its course by six grand stairways, the
last of which landed on the azoteas, one hundred and fifty
feet above the level of the street. Such was the highway
of the gods, up which the adventurous Christians essayed to
march, fighting.
“To my side, Sandoval! And ye, Alvarado, Morla,
Lugo, Ordas, Duero, — to my side!” said Cortes, defending
himself the while. “Make with me a line of shields across
the way. Let me hear your voices. No battle-cry here but
Christ and St. James! When ye are ready, shout, that I
may hear ye!”
One by one the brave gentlemen took their places; then
rose the cry, “Christo y Santiago! Christo y Santiago!”
And then the voice of Cortes, —
“Forward, my friends! Push the dogs! No quarter!
Christo y Santiago!”
Behind the line of shields moved the other cavaliers,
eager to help when help should be needed.
And then were shown the excellences of the sword in a
master's hand. The best shields of the infidels could not bar
its point; it overcame resistance so quietly that men fell,
in danger; it won the terrace, and so rapidly that the Christians
were themselves astonished.
“Ola, compañeros!” said Cortes, who in the fiercest
mêleé was still the watchful captain. “Ola! Yonder riseth
the second stairway. That the heathen may not use the
vantage against us, keep we close to this pack. On their
heels! Closer!”
So they mounted the steps of the second stairway, fighting;
and the crowd which they kept between them and the
enemy on the landing was a better cover even than the fire
of the bowmen and arquebusiers. And so the terraces were
all taken. Of the eight other Christians who fell under
the stones and logs rolled upon them from the heights
above, two lived long enough to be shrived by the faithful
Olmedo.
The azoteas of the temple has been already described as a
broad, paved area, unobstructed except by the sacrificial
stones and the sanctuaries of Huitzil' and Tezca'. A more
dreadful place for battle cannot be imagined. The coming
and going of worshippers, singly or in processions, and of
barefooted pabas, to whom the dizzy height was all the world,
had worn its surface smooth as furbished iron. If, as the
combat rolled slowly around the terraces, rising higher, and
nearer the chiefs and warriors on the summit, — if, in faintness
of heart or hope, they looked for a way of escape, the
sky and the remote horizon were all they saw: escape was
impossible.
With many others disabled by wounds, Io' ascended to
the azoteas in advance of the fight; not in despair, but as
the faithful might, never doubting that, when the human
effort failed, Huitzil', the Omnipotent, would defend himself.
He passed through the ranks, and with brave words encouraged
the common resolve to conquer or die. Stopping upon
there was a rest in the assault, except where the 'tzin fought,
with his back to the temple; and the thousands were standing
still, their faces upturned, — each where the strange
truce found him, — to behold the hunted gods in some
majestic form at last assert their divinity. So Io' knew, by
the whisperings of his own faith.
Again he turned prayerfully to the sanctuaries. At that
instant Cortes mounted the last step of the last stairway, —
after him the line of shields, and all the cavaliers, — after
them again, Olmedo with his crucifix! Then was wrought
an effect, simple enough of itself, but so timely that the
good man — forgetful that the image of Christ dead on the
cross is nothing without the story of his perfect love and sorrowful
death — found believers when he afterwards proclaimed
it a miracle. He held the sacred effigy up to be seen by all
the infidels; they gazed at it as at a god unfriendly to their
gods, and waited in awe for the beginning of a struggle between
the divine rivals; and while they waited, Cortes and
his cavaliers perfected their formation upon the azoteas, and
the bowmen and arquebusiers began to climb the second
stairway of the ascent. The moment of advantage was lost
to the Aztecs, and they paid the penalty.
Io' waited with the rest; from crucifix to sanctuary, and
sanctuary to crucifix, he turned; yet the gods nursed their
power. At last he awoke; too late! there was no escape.
Help of man was not possible, and the gods seemed to have
abandoned him.
“Tezcuco! Cholula! Tenochtitlan! Up, up, Tlateloco,
up!”
Over the azoteas his words rang piercing clear, and through
the ranks towards the Christians he rushed. The binding
of the spell was broken. Shook the banners, pealed war-cry,
conch, and atabal, — and the battle was joined.
“Hold fast until our brethren come; then shall our swords
drink their fill! Christo y Santiago!”
Never was the voice of Cortes more confident.
Need, nevertheless, had the cavaliers for all their strength
and skill, even the nicest cunning of fence and thrust.
Every joint of their harness was searched by javelin and
spear, and the clang of maquahuitls against the faces of their
shields was as the noise of a thousand armeros at work. The
line swayed and bent before the surge, now yielding, now
recovering, at times ready to break, and then — death awaited
them all on the terraces below. For life they plied their
swords, — no, not for life alone; behind them to and fro
strode Olmedo.
“Strike, and spare not!” he cried. “Lo, the gates of hell
yonder, but they shall not prevail. Strike for Holy Church,
whose swords ye are! For Holy Cross, and room to worship
above the Baals of heathendom! For glory here, and eternal
life hereafter!”
So he cried as he strode; and the crucifix on his lance
and the saintly words on his lips were better than trumpets,
better than a hundred Cids in reserve.
The great drum, which had been for a while silent, at this
juncture burst out again; and still more to inflame the infidels,
forth from the sanctuaries the pabas poured, and dispersed
themselves, leaping, dancing, singing, through the
ranks. Doubtless they answered the Christian priest,
promise for promise, and with even greater effect; the calm
and self-possessed among their people became zealots, and
the zealots became frantic madmen.
At last the bowmen and arquebusiers appeared upon the
scene. When Cortes saw them, — their line formed, matches
lighted, bows drawn, — he drew out of the combat to give
them directions.
“Viva compañeros!” he said, with a vivacity peculiar to
are ours. We with swords will now go forward. Keep ye
the stairway, and take care of our flanks. Ply your bolts,
— ply them fast, — and spare not a cur in the kennel!”
They made no answer, spake not a word. Stolidly, grimly
they gazed at him under their morions; they knew their
duty, and he knew them. Once more he turned to the
fight.
“To the sanctuaries!” he shouted, to the cavaliers. “We
have come for the false gods: let us at them. Charge,
gentlemen, Christ with us! Forward all!”
Back came their response, “Forward! Christo y Santiago!”
They advanced their shields suddenly; the play of their
swords redoubled; the weapons in front of them splintered
like reeds; war-cries half uttered turned to screams; under
foot blood ran like water, and feathered panoply and
fallen men, dying and dead, blotted out the pavement.
Surprised, bewildered, baffled, the bravest of the infidels
perished; the rest gave way or were pushed helplessly
back; and the dismay thus excited rose to panic when the
bowmen and arquebusiers joined in the combat. A horrible
confusion ensued. Hundreds threw away their arms, and
ran wildly around the azoteas; some flung themselves from
the height; some climbed the sanctuaries; some took to
piteous imploration of the doomed idols; others, in blind
fury, rushed empty-handed upon the dripping swords.
Steadily, as a good craft divides the current and its eddies,
Cortes made way to the sanctuaries, impatient to possess the
idols, that, at one blow, he might crush the faith they represented;
after which he made no doubt of the submission of
the nations in arms. A rare faculty that which, in the heat
of battle, can weave webs of policy, and in the mind's eye
trace out lines of wise conduct.
When, at last, the end was nigh, such of the pabas as
survived withdrew themselves from the delirious mob, and
assembled around the sacrificial stones. Some of them were
wounded; on many the black gowns hung in shreds; all
of them had one purpose more, usually the last to linger
in an enthusiast's heart. There, where they had witnessed
so many sacrifices, and, in eager observance of auguries,
overlooked or savagely enjoyed the agony of the victims,
they came themselves to die, — there the sword found them;
and from their brave, patient death we may learn that Satan
hath had his martyrs as well as Christ.
About the same time another body collected in the space
before the presence chamber of Huitzil'. They were the
surviving caciques, with Io' in their midst. Having borne
him out of the fray, they now took up a last position to defend
him and the gods.
Upon them also the battle had laid a heavy hand; most
of them were hurt and bleeding; of their beautiful regalia
only fragments remained; some were without arms of any
kind, some bore headless javelins or spears; a few had
maquahuitls. Not a word was spoken: they, too, had come
to die, and the pride of their race forbade repining.
They saw the last of the pabas fall; then the rapacious
swords, to complete the work, came to them. In the front
strode Cortes. His armor shone brightly, and his shield,
though spotted with blood, was as a mirror from which the
sun's rays shot, like darts, into the eyes of the infidels attracted
by its brightness.
Suddenly, three warriors, unarmed, rushed upon him; his
sword passed through one of them; the others caught him
in their arms. So quick, so bold and desperate was the
action that, before he could resist or his captains help him,
he was lifted from his feet and borne away.
“Help, gentlemen! Rescue!” he cried.
Forward sprang Sandoval, forward Alvarado, forward
the whole line. The caciques interposed themselves. Played
the swords then never so fast and deadly, — still the wall of
men endured.
Cortes with all his armor was a cumbrous burthen; yet
the warriors bore him swiftly toward the verge of the azoteas.
No doubt of their purpose: fair and stately were the halls
awaiting them in the Sun, if they but took the leap with
him! He struggled for life, and called on the saints, and
vowed vows; at the last moment, one of them stumbled
and fell; thereupon he broke away, regained his feet, and
slew them both.
In the door of the sanctuary of Huitzil', meantime, Io'
stood, biding the sure result of the unequal struggle. Again
and again he had striven to get to the enemy; but the devoted
caciques closed their circle against him as compactly
as against them. Nearer shone the resistless blades, — nearer
the inevitable death. The rumble and roar of the drum
poured from the chamber in mighty throbs; at times he
caught glimpses of the azoteas strewn with bloody wreck; a
sense of the greatness of the calamity seized him, followed
by the sullen calm which, in brave men dying, is more an
accusation of fate than courage, resignation, or despair; upon
his faculties came a mist; he shouted the old war-cry of
the 'tzin, and scarcely heard himself; the loves and hopes
that had made his young life beautiful seemed to rise up and
fly away, not in the air-line of birds, but with the slow,
eccentric flight of star-winged butterflies; then the light
faded and the sky darkened; he reeled and staggered, but
while falling, felt himself drawn into the presence chamber,
and looking up saw the face of the teotuctli, and heard the
words, “I loved your father, and he loved the god, who
may yet save us. Come, come!” The loving hands took
off his warlike trappings, and covering him with the frock
the god; then the darkness became perfect, and he knew
no more.
Directly there was a great shout within the chamber,
blent with the clang of armor and iron-shod feet; the teotuctli
turned, and confronted Olmedo, with Cortes and the
cavaliers.
The Christian priest dropped his lance to the floor, threw
back his cowl, raised his visor, and pointing to the crucifix
gazed proudly into the face of the infidel pontiff, who answered
with a look high and scornful, as became the first
and last servant of a god so lately the ruler of the universe.
And while they faced each other, the beating of the drum
ceased, and the clamor stilled, until nothing was heard but
the breathing of the conquerors, tired with slaughter.
Then Cortes said, —
“Glory to Christ, whose victory this is! Thou, father, art
his priest, let thy will be done. Speak!”
Olmedo turned to that quarter of the chamber where, by
permission of Montezuma, a Christian shrine and cross had
been erected: shrine and cross were gone! Answered he
then, —
“The despoiler hath done his work. Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord. Take this man,” pointing to the teotuctli,
“and bind him, and lead him hence.”
Alvarado stepped forward, and took off the massive silver
chain which he habitually wore twice encircling his neck,
and falling down low over his breast-plate; with it he
bound the wrists of the prisoner, who once, and once only,
cast an appealing glance up to the stony face of the idol.
As they started to lead him off, his eyes fell upon Io';
by a sign and look of pity, he directed their attention
to the boy.
“He is not dead,” said Sandoval, after examination.
“Take him hence, also,” Olmedo ordered. “At leisure
to-morrow we can learn what importance he hath.”
Hardly were the captives out when the chamber became
a scene of wild iconoclasm. The smoking censers
were overthrown; the sculpturings on the walls were defaced;
the altar was rifled of the rich accumulation of gifts;
fagots snatched from the undying fires in front of the sanctuaries
were applied to the carved and gilded wood-work;
and amid the smoke, and with shouting and laughter and
the noisy abandon of school-boys at play, the zealots despoiled
the gigantic image of its ornaments and treasure, —
of the bow and golden arrows in its hands; the feathers of
humming birds on its left foot; the necklace of gold and
silver hearts; the serpent enfolding its waist in coils glistening
with pearls and precious stones. A hundred hands then
pushed the monster from its sitting-place, and rolled it out
of the door, and finally off the azoteas. Tezca' shared the
same fate. The greedy flames mounted to the towers, and
soon not a trace of the ages of horrible worship remained,
except the smoking walls of the ruined sanctuaries.
Down from the heights marched the victors; into the
palace they marched; and not a hand was raised against
them on the way; the streets were almost deserted.
“Bien!” said Cortes, as he dismounted once more in
front of his quarters. “Muy bien! We have their king
and chief-priests; we have burned their churches, disgraced
their gods, and slain their nobles by the thousand. The war
is over, gentlemen; let us to our couches. Welcome rest!
welcome peace!”
And the weary army, accepting his words as verity, went
to rest, though the sun flamed in the brassy sky; but rest
there was not; ere dreams could follow slumber, the trumpets
sounded, and the battle was on again, fiercer than ever.
The sun set, and the night came; then the companies
after them, and burned a vast district of houses.
And the flames so filled the sky with brilliance that the
sun seemed to have stood still just below the horizon.
During the lurid twilight, Olmedo laid away, in shallow
graves dug for them in the palace-garden, more than fifty
Christians, of whom six and forty perished on the temple
and its terraces.
12. CHAPTER XII.
IN THE INTERVAL OF THE BATTLE — LOVE.
THE chinampa, at its anchorage, swung lightly, like an
Indian cradle pendulous in the air. Over it stooped the
night, its wings of darkness brilliant with the plumage of
stars. The fire in the city kindled by Cortes still fitfully
reddened the horizon in that direction, — a direful answer
to those who, remembering the sweetness of peace in the
beautiful valley, prayed for its return with the morning.
Yeteve, in the hammock, had lulled herself into the sleep
of dreams; while, in the canoe, Hualpa and the oarsmen
slept the sleep of the warrior and laborer, — the sleep too
deep for dreams. Only Tula and the 'tzin kept vigils.
Just outside the canopy, in sight of the meridian stars,
and where the night winds came sighing through the thicket
of flowers, a petate had been spread for them; and now
she listened, while he, lying at length, his head in her lap,
talked of the sorrowful time that had befallen.
He told her of the mantas, and their destruction; of how
Hualpa had made way to the presence of Nenetzin, and
how she had saved his life; and as the narrative went on,
the listener's head drooped low over the speaker's face, and
between the lost sister and the unhappy lover; he told
of the attack upon the palace, and of the fall of Iztlil', and
how, when the victory was won, Malinche flung the gods
from the temple, and so terrified the companies that they
fled.
“Then, O Tula, my hopes fell down. A people without
gods, broken in spirit, and with duty divided between two
kings, are but grass to be trodden. And Io,' — so young,
so brave, so faithful —”
He paused, and there was a long silence, devoted to the
prince's memory. Then he resumed, —
“In looking out over the lake, you may have noticed that
the city has been girdled with men in canoes, — an army,
indeed, unaffected by the awful spectacle of the overthrow
of the gods. I brought them up, and in their places sent
the companies that had failed me. So, as the sun went
down, I was able to pour fresh thousands upon Malinche.
How I rejoiced to see them pass the wall with Hualpa, and
grapple with the strangers! All my hopes came back again.
That the enemy fought feebly was not a fancy. Watching,
wounds, battle, and care have wrought upon them. They
are wasting away. A little longer, — two days, — a day
even, — patience, sweetheart, patience!”
There was silence again, — the golden silence of lovers,
under the stars, hand-in-hand, dreaming.
The 'tzin broke the spell to say, in lower tones and with
longer intervals, —
“Men must worship, O Tula, and there can be no worship
without faith. So I had next to renew the sacred fire and
restore the gods. The first was easy: I had only to start a
flame from the embers of the sanctuaries; the fire that
burned them was borrowed from that kept immemorially on
the old altars. The next duty was harder. The images
neither were the jewels that adorned them more precious
than others of the same kind: their sanctity was from faith
alone. The art of arts is to evoke the faith of men: make
me, O sweetheart, make me master of that art, and, as the
least of possibilities, I will make gods of things least godly.
In the places where they had fallen, at the foot of the
temple, I set the images up, and gave each an altar, with
censers, holy fire, and all the furniture of worship. By and
by, they shall be raised again to the azoteas; and when we
renew the empire, we will build for them sanctuaries richer
even than those of Cholula. If the faith of our people
demand more, then —”
He hesitated.
“Then, what?” she asked.
He shuddered, and said lower than ever, “I will unseal
the caverns of Quetzal', and, — more I cannot answer now.”
The influence of Mualox was upon him yet.
“And if that fail?” she persisted.
Not until the stars at the time overhead had passed and
been succeeded by others as lustrous, did he answer, —
“And if that fail? Then we will build a temple, — one
without images, — a temple to the One Supreme God. So,
O Tula, shall the prophecy of the king, your father, be fulfilled
in our day.”
And with that up sprang a breeze of summery warmth,
lingering awhile to wanton with the tresses of the willow,
and swing the flowery island half round the circle of its
anchorage; and from the soothing hand on his forehead,
or the reposeful motion of the chinampa, the languor of
sleep stole upon his senses; yet recollection of the battle
and its cares was hard to be put away: —
“I should have told you,” he said, in a vanishing voice,
“that when the companies abandoned us, I went first to see
me admittance; the king was sick, they said.”
A tremor shook the hand on his forehead, and larger grew
the great eyes bending over him.
“Did they say of what he was sick?” she asked.
“Of the plague.”
“And what is that?”
“Death,” he answered, and next moment fell asleep.
Over her heart, to hush the loudness of its beating, she
clasped her hands; for out of the chamber of the almost
forgotten, actual as in life, stalked Mualox, the paba, saying,
as once on the temple he said, “You shall be queen in your
father's palace.” She saw his beard of fleecy white, and his
eyes of mystery, and asked herself again and again, “Was
he indeed a prophet?”
And the loving child and faithful subject strove hard to
hide from the alluring promise, for in its way she descried
two living kings, her father and her uncle; but it sought her
continually, and found her, and at last held her as a dream
holds a sleeper, — held her until the stars heralded the
dawn, and the 'tzin awoke to go back to the city, back to
the battle, — from love to battle.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
“LEAVE the city, now so nearly won! Surely, father,
surely thou dost jest with me!”
So Cortes said as he sat in his chamber, resting his arm
on the table, the while Olmedo poured cold water on his
wounded hand.
The father answered without lifting his face, —
“Go, I say, that we may come back assured of holding
what we have won.”
“Sayest thou so, — thou! By my conscience, here are
honor, glory, empire! Abandon them, and the treasure,
a part of which, as thou knowest, I have already accounted
to his Majesty? No, no; not yet, father! I
cannot — though thou may'st — forget what Velasquez
and my enemies, the velveted minions of the court, would
say.”
“Then it is as I feared,” said Olmedo, suspending his
work, and tossing his hood farther back on his shoulders.
“It is as I feared. The good judgment which hath led us
so far so well, and given riches to those who care for riches,
and planted the Cross over so many heathen temples is, at
last, at fault.”
The father's manner was solemn and reproachful. Cortes
turned to him inquiringly.
“Señor, thou knowest I may be trusted. Heed me. I
speak for Christ's sake,” continued Olmedo. “Leave the
city we must. There is not corn for two days more; the
army is worn down with wounds and watching; scarcely
canst thou thyself hold an axe; the men of Narvaez are
mutineers; the garden is full of graves, and it hath been
said of me that, for want of time, I have shorn the burial
service of essential Catholic rites. And the enemy, Señor,
the legions that broke through the wall last evening, were
new tribes for the first time in battle. Of what effect on
them were yesterday's defeats? The gods tumbled from
the temple have their altars and worship already. Thou
may'st see them from the central turret.”
The good man was interrupted. Sandoval appeared at the
door.
“Come,” said Cortes, impatiently.
The captain advanced to the table, and saluting, said, in
his calm, straightforward way, —
“The store for the horses is out; we fed them to-night
from the rations of the men. I gave Motilla half of mine,
and yet she is hungry.”
At these words, the hand Olmedo was nursing closed,
despite its wound, as upon a sword-hilt, vice-like, and up the
master arose, brow and cheek gray as if powdered with ashes,
and began to walk the floor furiously; at last he stopped
abruptly: —
“Sandoval, go bid the captains come. I would have their
opinions as to what we should do. Omit none of them.
Those who say nothing may be witnesses hereafter.”
The order was given quietly, with a smile even. A moment
the captain studied his leader's face, and I would not say
he did not understand the meaning of the simple words;
for of him Cortes afterwards said, “He is fit to command
great armies.”
Cortes sat down, and held out the hand for Olmedo's ministrations;
but the father touched him caressingly, and said,
when Sandoval was gone, —
“I commend thee, son, with all my soul. Men are never
so much on trial as when they stand face to face with necessity;
the weak fight it, and fall; the wise accept it as a
servant. So do thou now.”
Cortes' countenance became chill and sullen. “I cannot
see the necessity —”
“Good!” exclaimed Olmedo. “Whatsoever thou dost,
hold fast to that. The captains will tell thee otherwise,
but —”
“What?” asked Cortes, with a sneer. “The treasure is
vast, — a million pesos or more. Dost thou believe they will
go and leave it?”
But Olmedo was intent upon his own thought.
“Mira!” he said. “If the captains say there is a necessity,
do thou put in thy denial; stand on thy opinion boldly;
and when thou givest up, at last, yield thee to that other
necessity, the demand of the army. And so —”
“And so,” Cortes said with a smile, which was also a
sneer, “and so thou wouldst make a servant of one neccessity
by invoking another.”
“Yes; another which may be admitted without danger or
dishonor. Thou hast the idea, my son.”
“So be it, so be it, — aguardamonos!”
Thereupon Cortes retired within himself, and the father
began again to nurse the wounded hand.
And by and by the chamber was filled with captains, soldiers,
and caciques, whose persons, darkly visible in the
murky light, testified to the severity of the situation: rusted
armor, ragged apparel, faded trappings, bandaged limbs,
countenances heavy with anxiety, or knit hard by suffering,
— such were the evidences.
In good time Cortes arose.
“Ola, my friends,” he said, bluntly. “I have heard that
there are among ye many who think the time come to give
the city, and all we have taken, back to the infidels. I have
sent for ye that I may know the truth. As the matter concerneth
interests of our royal master aside from his dominion,
— property, for example, — the Secretary Duero will make
note of all that passeth. Let him come forward and take
place here.”
The secretary seated himself by the table with manuscript
and pen.
“Now, gentlemen, begin.”
So saying, the chief dropped back into his seat, and held
the sore hand to Olmedo for further care, — never speech
more bluff, never face more calm. For a time, nothing was
heard but the silvery tinkle of the falling water. At length
and, at last, when the opinion was taken, not a voice said
stay; on the contrary, the clamor to go was, by some, indecently
loud.
Cortes then stood up.
“The opinion is all one way. Hast thou so written,
Señor Duero?”
The secretary bowed.
“Then write again, — write that I, Hernan Cortes, to this
retreat said, No; write that, if I yield my judgment, it is
not to any necessity of which we have heard as coming from
the enemy, but to the demand of my people. Hast thou so
written?”
The secretary nodded.
“Write again, that upon this demand I ordered Alonzo
Avila and Gonzalo Mexia to take account of all the treasure
belonging to our master, the most Christian king; with leave
to the soldiers, when the total hath been perfected and the retreat
made ready, to help themselves from the balance, as each
one may wish. Those gentlemen will see that their task be
concluded by noon to morrow. Hast written, Duero?”
“Word for word,” answered the secretary.
“Very well. And now,” — Cortes raised his head, and
spoke loudly, — “and now, rest and sleep who can. This
business is bad. Get ye gone!”
And when they were alone, he said to Olmedo, —
“I have done ill —”
“Nay,” said the father, smiling, “thou hast done well.”
“Bastante, — we shall see. Never had knaves such need
of all their strength as when this retreat is begun; yet of
what account will they be when loaded down with the gold
they cannot consent to leave behind?”
“Why then the permission?” asked the father.
Cortes smiled blandly, —
“If I cannot make them friends, by my conscience! I can
at least seal their mouths in the day of my calamity.”
Then bowing his head, he added, —
“Thy benediction, father.”
The blessing was given.
“Amen!” said Cortes.
And the priest departed; but the steps of the iron-hearted
soldier were heard long after, — not quick and determined
as usual, but slow and measured, and with many and long
pauses between. So ambition walks when marshalling its
resources; so walks a heroic soul at war with itself and fortune!
He flung himself upon his couch at last, saying,—
“In my quiver there are two bolts left. The saints help
me! I will speed them first.”
14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE KING BEFORE HIS PEOPLE AGAIN.
GUATAMOZIN'S call at the royal palace to see the king,
Cuitlahua, had not been without result. When told that
the monarch was too sick of the plague to be seen, he called
for the officer who had charge of the accounts of tribute received
for the royal support.
“Show me,” said the 'tzin, “how much corn was delivered
to Montezuma for Malinche.”
A package of folded aguave leaves was brought and laid
at the accountant's feet. In a moment he took out a leaf
well covered with picture-writing, and gave it to the 'tzin,
who, after study, said to a cacique in waiting, “Bring me
one of the couriers,” and to another, “Bring me wherewith
to write.”
When the latter was brought, he sat down, and dipping
a brush into a vessel of liquid color, drew upon a clear,
yellow-tinted leaf a picture of a mother duck leading her
brood from the shore into the water; by way of signature,
he appended in one corner the figure of an owl in flight.
On five other sheets he repeated the writing; then the missives
were given each to a separate courier with verbal directions
for their delivery.
When he left the palace, the 'tzin laid his hand upon
Hualpa's shoulder, and said, joyfully, —
“Better than I thought, O comrade. Malinche has corn
for one day only!”
The blood quickened in Hualpa's heart, as he asked, —
“Then the end is near?”
“To-morrow, or the next day,” said the 'tzin.
“But Montezuma is generous, —”
“Can he give what he has not? To-night there will be
delivered for his use and that of his household, whom I have
had numbered for the purpose, provisions for one day, not
more.”
“Then it is so! Praised be the gods! and you, O my
master, wiser than other men!” cried Hualpa, with upraised
face, and a gladness which was of youth again, and love so
blind that he saw Nenetzin, — not the stars, — and so deaf
that he heard not the other words of the 'tzin, —
“The couriers bear my orders to bring up all the armies.
And they will be here in the morning.”
In the depth of the night, while Cortes lay restlessly
dreaming, his sentinels on the palace were attracted by music
apparently from every quarter; at first, so mellowed by distance
as to seem like the night singing to itself; afterwhile,
swollen into the familiar dissonant minstrelsy of conch and
atabal, mixed with chanting of many voices.
“O ho!” shouted the outliers on the neighboring houses,
“O ho, accursed strangers! Think no more of conquest,
— not even of escape; think only of death by sacrifice!
If you are indeed teules, the night, though deepened by the
smoke of our burning houses, cannot hinder you from seeing
the children of Anahuac coming in answer to the call of
Huitzil'. If you are men, open wide your ears that you may
hear their paddles on the lake and their tramp on the causeway.
O victims! one day more, then, — the sacrifice!”
Even the Christians, leaning on their lances, and listening,
felt the heaviness of heart which is all of fear the brave can
know, and crossed themselves, and repeated such pater nosters
as they could recollect.
And so it was. The reserve armies which had been reposing
in the vales behind Chapultepec all marched to
the city; and the noise of their shouting, drumming, and
trumpeting, when they arrived and began to occupy its
thoroughfares and strong places, was like the roar of the sea.
To the garrison, under arms meantime, and suffering from
the influence of all they heard, the dawn was a long time
coming; but at last the sun came, and poured its full light
over the leaguered palace and courtly precincts.
But the foemen stood idly looking at each other; for in
the night, Cortes, on his side, had made preparations for peace.
Two caciques went from him to the king Cuitlahua, proposing
a parley; and the king replied that he would come in
the morning, and hear what he had to say. So there was
truce as well as sunshine.
“Tell me truly, Don Pedro, — as thou art a gentleman,
tell me, — didst thou ever see a sight like this?”
Whereupon, Alvarado, who, with others, was leaning
against the parapet which formed part of the battlements of
the eastern gate of the palace, looked again, and critically,
over that portion of the square visible from his position, and
wert my little princess yonder in the patio. Sight like this
I never saw, and” — he added, with a quizzical smile —
“never care to see again.”
Orteguilla persisted, —
“Nay, didst thou ever see anything that surpassed it?”
Once more Alvarado surveyed the scene, — of men a
myriad, in the streets rank upon rank; so on the houses
and temple, — everywhere the glinting of arms, and the brown
faces of warriors glistening above their glistening shields;
everywhere escaupiles of flaming red, and banners; everywhere
the ineffable beauty and splendor of royal war. The
good captain withdrew his enamoured gaze slowly: —
“No, never!” he said.
Even he, the prince of gibes and strange oaths, forgot his
tricks in presence of the pageant.
While the foemen looked at each other so idly, up the
beautiful street came heralds announcing Cuitlahua. Soon
his balanquin, attended by a great retinue of nobles, was
brought and set down in front of the eastern gate of the
palace. Upon its appearance, the people knelt, and touched
the ground with their palms. Then there was a blare of
Christian trumpets, and Cortes, with Olmedo and Marina,
came upon the turret.
The heralds waved their silver wands: the hush became
absolute; then the curtains of the palanquin were rolled
away, and the king turned his head languidly, and looked up
to Cortes, who raised his visor, and looked down on him;
and in the style of a conqueror demanded peace and quick
return to obedience.
“If thou dost not,” he said, “I will make thy city a ruin.”
The shrill voice of Marina, interpreting, flew wide over the
space, so peopled, yet so still; at the last word, there was a
mighty stir, but the heralds waved their wands, and the hush
came back.
On Cuitlahua's face the pallor of sickness gave place to a
flush of anger; he sat up, and signed to Guatamozin, and
upon his shoulder laid his hand trustingly, saying, —
“My son, lend me your voice; answer.”
The 'tzin, unmindful that the breath he drew upon his
cheek was the breath of the plague, put his arm around the
king, and said, so as to be heard to the temple's top, —
“The king Cuitlahua answers for himself and his people.
Give ear, O Malinche! You have desolated our temples,
and broken the images of our gods; the smoke of our city
offends the sky; your swords are terrible, — many have fallen
before them, and many more will fall; yet we are content to
exchange in death a thousand of ours for one of yours. Behold
how many of us are left; then count your losses, and
know that you cannot escape. Two suns shall not pass,
until, amidst our plenty, we shall laugh to see you sick from
hunger. For further answer, O Malinche, as becomes the
king of his people, Cuitlahua gives you the war-cry of his
fathers.”
The 'tzin withdrew his arm, and snatching the green
panache from the palanquin, whirled it overhead, crying,
“Up, up, Tlateloco! Up, Tlateloco!”
At sight of the long feathers streaming over the group,
like a banner, the multitude sprang to foot, and with horrible
clamor and a tempest of missiles drove the Christians from
the turret.
And of the two bolts in Cortes' quiver, such was the speeding
of the FIRST ONE!
An hour passed, — an hour of battle without and dispute
within the palace.
To Cortes in his chamber then came Orteguilla, reporting.
“I gave the king the message, Señor; and he bade me
tell thee thy purpose is too late. He will not come.”
The passion-vein[3] on Cortes' neck and forehead rose, and
stood out like a purple cord.
“The heathen dog!” he cried. “Will not! He is a
slave, and shall come. By the holy blood of Christ, he shall
come, or die!”
Then Olmedo spoke, —
“If thou wilt hear, Señor, Montezuma affects me and the
good Captain Oli tenderly; suffer us to go to him, and see
what we can do.”
“So be it, so be it! If thou canst bring him, in God's
name, go. If he refuse, then — I have sworn! Hearken to
the hell's roar without! Let me have report quickly. I will
wait thee here. Begone!”
Olmedo started. Cortes caught his sleeve, and looked at
him fixedly.
“Mira!” he said, in a whisper. “As thou lovest me do
this work well. If he fail — if he fail —
“Well?” said Olmedo, in the same tone.
“Then — then get thee to prayers! Go.”
The audience chamber whither Oli and the priest betook
themselves, with Orteguilla to interpret, was crowded with
courtiers, who made way for them to the dais upon which
Montezuma sat. They kissed his hand, and declining the invitation
to be seated began their mission.
“Good king,” said the father, “we bring thee a message
from Malinche; and as its object is to stay the bloody battle
which is so grievous to us all, and the slaughter which must
otherwise go on, we pray thy pardon if we make haste to
speak.”
The monarch's face chilled, and drawing his mantle close
he said, coldly, —
“I am listening.”
Olmedo proceeded, —
“The Señor Hernan commiserates the hard lot which
compels thee to listen here to the struggle which hath lasted
so many days, and always with the same result, — the wasting
of thy people. The contest hath become a rebellion
against thee as well as against his sovereign and thine.
Finally there will be no one left to govern, — nothing, indeed,
but an empty valley and a naked lake. In pity for
the multitude, he is disposed to help save them from their
false leaders. He hath sent us, therefore, to ask thee to join
him in one more effort to that end.”
“Said he how I could help him?” asked the king.
“Come and speak to the people, and disperse them, as
once before thou didst. And to strengthen thy words, and
as his part of the trial, he saith thou mayst pledge him to leave
the city as soon as the way is open. Only let there be no
delay. He is in waiting to go with thee, good king.”
The monarch listened intently.
“Too late, too late!” he cried. “The ears of my people
are turned from me. I am king in name and form only;
the power is another's. I am lost, — so is Malinche. I will
not go. Tell him so.”
There was a stir in the chamber, and a groan from the bystanders;
but the messengers remained looking at the poor
king, as at one who had rashly taken a fatal vow.
“Why do you stay?” he continued, with a glowing face.
“What more have I to do with Malinche? See the state
to which my serving him has already reduced me.”
“Remember thy people!” said Olmedo, solemnly.
Flashed the monarch's eyes as he answered, —
“My brave people! I hear them now. They are in arms
to save themselves; and they will not believe me or the
promises of Malinche. I have spoken.”
Then Oli moved a step toward the dais, and kissing the
royal hand, said, with suffused eyes, —
“Thou knowest I love thee, O king; and I say, if thou
carest for thyself, go.”
Something there was in the words, in the utterance, probably,
that drew the monarch's attention; leaning forward, he
studied the cavalier curiously; over his face the while came
the look of a man suddenly called by his fate. His lips
parted, his eyes fixed; and but that battle has voices which
only the dead may refuse to hear his spirit would have
drifted off into unseemly reverie. Recalling himself with
an effort, he arose, and said, half-smiling, —
“A man, much less a king, is unfit to live when his
friends think to move him from his resolve by appeals to his
fears.” And rising, and drawing himself to his full
stature, he added, so as to be heard throughout the chamber,
“Very soon, if not now, you will understand me when
I say I do not care for myself. I desire to die. Go, my
friends, and tell Malinche that I will do as he asks, and
straightway.”
Oli and Olmedo kissed his hands, and withdrew; whereupon
he calmly gave his orders.
Very soon the 'tzin, who was directing the battle from a
point near the gate of the coatapantli, saw a warrior appear
on the turret so lately occupied by Cortes, and wave a royal
panache. He raised his shield overhead at once, and held it
there until on his side the combat ceased. The Christians,
glad of a breathing spell, quit almost as soon. All eyes then
turned to the turret; even the combatants who had been
fighting hand to hand across the crest of the parapet, ventured
to look that way, when, according to the usage of the
infidel court, the heralds came, and to the four quarters of
the earth waved their silver wands.
Too well the 'tzin divined the meaning of the ceremony.
“Peace,” he seemed to hear, and then, “Lover of Anahuac,
servant of the gods, — choose now between king and country.
will became infirm as a child's. In the space between him and
the turret the smoke of the guns curled and writhed sensuously,
each moment growing fainter and weaker, as did the
great purpose to which he thought he had steeled himself.
When he brought the shield down, his face was that of a man
whom long sickness had laid close to the gates of death.
Then came the image of Tula, and then the royal permission
to do what the gods enjoined, — nay, more than permission,
a charge which left the deed to his hand, that there might
be no lingering amongst the strangers. “O sweetheart!”
he said, to himself, “if this duty leave me stainless, whom
may I thank but you!”
Then he spoke to Hualpa, though with a choking voice, —
“The king is coming. I must go and meet him. Get my
bow, and stand by me with an arrow in place for instant
use.”
Hualpa moved away slowly, watching the 'tzin; then he
returned, and asked, in a manner as full of meaning as the
words themselves, —
“Is there not great need that the arrow should be very
true?”
The master's eyes met his as he answered, “Yes; be
careful.”
Yet the hunter stayed.
“O 'tzin,” he said, “his blood is not in my veins. He
is only my benefactor. Your days are not numbered, like
mine, and as yet you are blameless; for the sake of the peace
that makes life sweet, I pray you let my hand do this
service.”
And the 'tzin took his hand, and replied, fervently, —
“There is nothing so precious as the sight that is quick to
see the sorrows of others, unless it be the heart that hurries
to help them. After this, I may never doubt your love;
asked it of me. Lo, the heralds appear!”
“He has asked it of you! that is enough,” and Hualpa
stayed no longer.
Upon the turret the carpet was spread and the canopy
set up, and forth came a throng of cavaliers and infidel
lords, the latter splendidly bedight; then appeared Montezuma
and Cortes.
As the king moved forward a cry, blent of all feelings, —
love, fear, admiration, hate, reverence, — burst from the
great audience; after which only Guatamozin and Hualpa,
in front of the gate, were left standing.
And such splendor flashed from the monarch's person,
from his sandals of gold, tunic of feathers, tilmatli of white,
and copilli[4] inestimably jeweled; from his face and mien
issued such majesty that, after the stormy salutation, the
multitude became of the place a part, motionless as the
stones, the dead not more silent.
With his hands crossed upon his breast he stood awhile,
seeing and being seen, and all things waited for him to
speak; even the air seemed waiting, it was so very hushed.
He looked to the sky, flecked with unhallowed smoke; to
the sun, whose heaven, just behind the curtain of brightness,
was nearer to him than ever before; to the temple, place of
many a royal ceremony, his own coronation the grandest of
all; to the city, beautiful in its despoilment; to the people,
for whom, though they knew it not, he had come to die; at
last his gaze settled upon Guatamozin, and as their eyes
met, he smiled; then shaking the tilmatli from his shoulder,
he raised his head, and said, in a voice from which all weakness
was gone, his manner never so kingly, —
“I know, O my people, that you took up arms to set me
free, and that was right; but how often since then have I
guests; that I am free to leave them when I please, and that
I live with them because I love them?”
As in a calm a wind sometimes blows down, and breaks
the placid surface of a lake into countless ripples, driving
them hither and thither in sparkling confusion, these words
fell upon the listening mass; a yell of anger rose, and from
the temple descended bitter reproaches.
Yet the 'tzin was steady; and when the outcry ended, the
king went on, —
“I am told your excuse now is, that you want to drive
my friends from the city. My children, here stands Malinche
himself. He hears me say for him that, if you will
open the way, he and all with him will leave of their own
will.”
Again the people broke out in revilements, but the monarch
waved his hand angrily, and said, —
“As I am yet your king, I bid you lay down your
arms —”
Then the 'tzin took the ready bow from Hualpa; full to
the ear he drew the arrow. Steady the arm, strong the
hand, — an instant, and the deed was done! In the purple
shadow of the canopy, amidst his pomp of royalty, Montezuma
fell down, covered, when too late, by a score of
Christian shields. Around him at the same time fell a
shower of stones from the temple.
Then, with a shout of terror, the companies arose as at a
word and fled, and, panic-blind, tossed the 'tzin here and
there, and finally left him alone in the square with Hualpa.
“All is lost!” said the latter, disconsolately.
“Lost!” said the 'tzin. “On the temple yonder lies Malinche's
last hope. No need now to assail the palace. When
the king comes out, hunger will go in and fight for us.”
“But the people, — where are they?”
The 'tzin raised his hand and pointed to the palace, —
“So the strangers have asked. See!”
Hualpa turned, and saw the gate open and the cavaliers
begin to ride forth.
“Go they this way, or yon,” continued the 'tzin, “they
will find the same answer. Five armies hold the city; a
sixth keeps the lake.”
Down the beautiful street the Christians rode unchallenged
until they came to the first canal. While restoring
the bridge there, they heard the clamor of an army, and lo!
out of the gardens, houses, and temples, far as the vision
reached, the infidels poured and blocked the way.
Then the cavaliers rode back, and took the way to Tlacopan.
There, too, the first canal was bridgeless; and as
they stood looking across the chasm, they heard the same
clamor and beheld the same martial apparition.
Once more they rode, this time up the street toward the
northern dike, and with the same result.
“Ola, father!” said Cortes, returned to the palace, “we
may not stay here after to-morrow.”
“Amen!” cried Olmedo.
“Look thou to the sick and wounded; such as can march
or move, get them ready.”
“And the others?” asked the good man.
“Do for them what thou dost for the dying. Shrieve
them!”
So saying, the Christian leader sank on his seat, and gave
himself to sombre thought
He had sped his second and — LAST BOLT!
The rest of the day was spent in preparation for retreat.
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.
AGAIN Martin Lopez had long conference with Cortes;
after which, with his assistant carpenters, he went to
work, and, until evening time, the echoes of the court-yard
danced to the sounds of saw and hammer.
And while they worked, to Cortes came Avila and Mexia.
“What thou didst intrust to us, Señor, we have done.
Here is a full account of all the treasure, our royal master's
included.”
Cortes read the statement, then called his chamberlain,
Christobal de Guzman.
“Go thou, Don Christobal, and bring what is here reported
into one chamber, where it may be seen of all. And
send hither the royal secretaries, and Pedro Hernandez, my
own clerk.”
The secretaries came.
“Now, Señores Avila and Mexia, follow my chamberlain,
and in his presence and that of these gentlemen, take from
the treasure the portion belonging to his Majesty, the emperor.
Of our wounded horses, then choose ye eight, and
of the Tlascalans, eighty, and load them with the royal dividend,
and what more they can carry; and have them always
ready to go. And as leaving anything of value where
the infidels may be profited is sinful, I direct, — and of this
let all bear witness, Hernandez for me, and the secretaries for
his Majesty, — I direct, I say, that ye set the remainder apart
accessible to the soldiers, with leave to each one of them to
take therefrom as much as he may wish. Make note,
further, that what is possible to save all this treasure hath
one thinketh differently, let him say what more I can do. I
am waiting to hear. Speak!”
No one spoke.
And while the division of the large plunder went on, and
afterwards the men scrambled for the remainder, Montezuma
was dying.
In the night a messenger sought Cortes.
“Señor,” he said, “the king hath something to ask of
you. He will not die comforted without seeing you.”
“Die, say'st thou?” and Cortes arose hastily. “I had
word that his hurts were not deadly.”
“If he die, Señor, it will be by his own hand. The
stones wrought him but bruises; and if he would let the
bandages alone the arrow-cut would shortly stop bleeding.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cortes. “Thou wouldst tell me that this
barbarian, merely from being long a king, hath a spirit of
such exceeding fineness that, though the arrow had not cut
him deeper than thy dull rowel marketh thy horse's flank, yet
would he die. Where is he now?”
“In the audience chamber.”
“Bastante! I will see him. Tell him so.”
Cortes stood fast, thinking.
“This man hath been useful to me; may not some
profit be eked out of him dead? So many saw him get
his wounds, and so many will see him die of them, that the
manner of his taking off may not be denied. What if I
send his body out and indict his murderers? If I could take
from them the popular faith even, then — By my conscience,
I will try the trick!”
And taking his sword and plumed hat and tossing a cloak
over his shoulder he sought the audience chamber.
There was no guard at the door. The little bells, as he
threw aside the curtains, greeted him accusingly. Within,
over and around the dais; nevertheless, he saw the floor
covered with people, some prostrate, others on their knees or
crouching face down; and the grim speculator thought, as
he passed slowly on, Verily, this king must also have been a
good man and a generous.
The couch of the dying monarch was on the dais in the
accustomed place of the throne. At one side stood the
ancients; at the other his queens knelt, weeping. Nenetzin
hid her face in his hand, and sobbed as if her heart were
breaking; she had been forgiven. Now and then Maxtla
bent over him to cleanse his face of the flowing blood. A
group of cavaliers were off a little way, silent witnesses;
and as Cortes drew near, Olmedo, who had been in prayer,
extended toward the sufferer the ivory cross worn usually at
his girdle.
“O king,” said the good man imploringly, “thou hast yet
a moment of life, which, I pray thee, waste not. Take this
holy symbol upon thy breast, cross thy hands upon it,
and say after me: I believe in One God, the Father Almighty,
in our Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of
God, and in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life.
Then pray thou: O God the Father of Heaven, O God the
Son, Redeemer of the World, O God the Holy Ghost, O
Holy Trinity, One God, have mercy upon my soul! Do
these things, say these words, O king, and thou shalt live
after thy bones have gone to dust. Thou shalt live forever,
eternally happy.”
Courtiers and cavaliers, the queens, Nenetzin, even Cortes,
watched the monarch's waning face; never yet were people
indifferent to the issue — the old, old issue — of true god
against false. Marina finished the interpretation; then he
raised his hand tremulously, and put the holy sign away,
saying, —
“I have but a moment to live, and will not desert the
faith of my fathers now.”
A great sigh of relief broke from the infidels; the Christians
shuddered, and crossed themselves; then Cortes stepped
to Olmedo's side.
“I received your message, and am here,” said he, sternly.
He had seen the cross rejected.
The king turned his pale face, and fixed his glazing eyes
upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look
that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can
do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”
“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying
easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.
With an effort he sought Cortes' hand, and looking at
Acatlan and Tecalco, continued, —
“Let me intrust these women and their children to you
and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is
yours, — lands, people, empire, — enough to save them from
want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the
hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”
Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great
Spaniard.
“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy
queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing
of all these, I so swear.”
The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand
fell down; and so still was he that they began to think
him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,
—
“Nearer, uncles, nearer.”
The old men bent over him, listening.
“A message to Guatamozin, — to whom I give my last
thought as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is
no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered
for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him
do what he did. And in sign that I love him, take my
sceptre, and give it to him —”
The voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the ancients
stooped, —
“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured,
and they were his last words, — his will.
A wail from the women proclaimed him dead.
The unassoilzied great may not see heaven; they pass
from life into history, where, as in a silent sky, they shine
for ever and ever. So the light of the Indian King comes
to us, a glow rather than a brilliance; for, of all fates, his
was the saddest. Better not to be than to become the ornament
of another's triumph. Alas for him whose death is
an immortal sorrow!
Out of the palace-gate in the early morning passed the
lords of the court in procession, carrying the remains of the
monarch. The bier was heavy with royal insignia; nothing
of funeral circumstance was omitted; honor to the dead was
policy. At the same time the body was delivered, Cortes indicted
the murderers; the ancients through whom he spoke
were also the bearers of the dead king's last will; back to
the bold Spaniard, therefore, came the reply, —
“Cowards, who at the last moment beg for peace! you are
not two suns away from your own graves! Think only of
them!”
And while Cortes was listening to the answer, the streets
about the palace filled with companies, and crumbling parapet
and solid wall shook under the shock of a new assault.
Then Cortes' spirit arose.
“Mount, gentlemen!” he cried. “The hounds come
scrambling for the scourge; shame on us, if we do not meet
them. And hearken! The prisoners report a plague in
sick. It is the small-pox.”
“Viva la viruela!” shouted Alvarado.
The shout spread through the palace.
“Where God's curse is,” continued Cortes, “Christians
need not stay. To-night we will go. To clear the way and
make this day memorable let us ride. Are ye ready?”
They answered joyously.
Again the gates were opened, and with a goodly following
of infantry, into the street they rode. Nothing withstood
them; they passed the canals by repairing the bridges or
filling up the chasms; they rode the whole length of the
street until the causeway clear to Tlacopan was visible. St.
James fought at their head; even the Holy Mother stooped
from her high place, and threw handfuls of dust in the
enemy's eyes.
In the heat of the struggle suddenly the companies fell
back, and made open space around the Christians; then
came word that commissioners from king Cuitlahua waited
in the palace to treat of peace.
“The heathen is an animal!” said Cortes, unable to repress
his exultation. “To cure him of temper and win his
love, there is nothing like the scourge. Let us ride back,
gentlemen.”
In the court-yard stood four caciques, stately men in peaceful
garb. They touched the pavement with their palms.
“We are come to say, O Malinche, that the lord Cuitlahua,
our king, yields to your demand for peace. He prays
you to give your terms to the pabas whom you captured on
the temple, that they may bring them to him forthwith.”
The holy men were brought from their cells, one leaning
upon the other. The instructions were given; then the two,
with the stately commissioners, were set without the gate,
and Cortes and his army went to rest, never so contented.
They waited and waited; but the envoys came not. When
the sun went down, they knew themselves deceived; and
then there were sworn many full, round, Christian oaths,
none so full, so round, and so Christian as Cortes'.
A canoe, meantime, bore Io' to Tula. In the quiet and
perfumed shade of the chinampa he rested, and soothed the
fever of his wound.
Meanwhile, also, a courier from the teotuctli passed from
temple to temple; short the message, but portentous, —
“Blessed be Huitzil', and all the gods of our fathers!
And, as he at last saved his people, blessed be the memory
of Montezuma! Purify the altars, and make ready for the
sacrifice, for to-morrow there will be victims!”
16. CHAPTER XVI.
ADIEU TO THE PALACE.
AT sunset a cold wind blew from the north, followed
by a cloud which soon filled the valley with mist;
soon the mist turned to rain; then the rain turned to night,
and the night to deepest blackness.
The Christians, thinking only of escape from the city,
saw the change of weather with sinking hearts. With one
voice they had chosen the night as most favorable for the
movement, but they had in mind then a semi-darkness
warmed by south winds and brilliant with stars; not a time
like this so unexpectedly come upon them, — tempest added
to gloom, icy wind splashing the earth with icy water.
Under the walls the sentinels cowered shivering and
listening and, as is the habit of wanderers surrounded by
discomforts and miseries, musing of their homes so far away,
viewless. Recalled to present duty, they saw nothing but the
fires of the nearest temple faintly iridescent, and heard only
the moans of the blast and the pattering of the rain, always
so in harmony with the spirit when it is oppressed by loneliness
and danger.
Meantime, the final preparation for retreat went on with
the completeness of discipline.
About the close of the second watch of the night, Cortes, with
his personal attendants, — page, equerry, and secretaries, —
left his chamber and proceeded to the eastern gate, where he
could best receive reports, and assure himself, as the divisions
filed past him, that the column was formed as he had ordered.
The superstructure of the gate offered him shelter; but he
stood out, bridle in hand, his back to the storm. There he
waited, grimly silent, absorbed in reflections gloomy as the
night itself.
Everything incident to the preparation which required
light had been done before the day expired; outside the
house, therefore, there was not a spark to betray the movement
to the enemy; in fact, nothing to betray it except the
beat of horses' hoofs and the rumble of gun-carriages, and
they were nigh drowned by the tempest. If the saints would
but help him clear of the streets of the city, would help him
to the causeway even, without bringing the infidels upon
him, sword and lance would win the rest: so the leader
prayed and trusted the while he waited.
“My son, is it thou?” asked a man, close at his side.
He turned quickly, and replied, “Father Bartolomé!
Welcome! What dost thou bring?”
“Report of the sick and wounded.”
“I remember, I remember! Of all this bad business, by
my conscience! no part so troubled me as to say what should
be done with them. At the last moment thou wert good
thy judgment dictate? What did thy conscience permit?”
The good man arranged his hood, the better to shield his
face from the rain, and answered, —
“Of the Christians, all who are able will take their places
in the line; the very sick will be borne by Tlascalans; the
litters are ready for them.”
“Very well,” said Cortes.
“The Tlascalans —”
“Cierto, there the trouble began!” and Cortes laid his
hand heavily on the priest's shoulder. “Three hundred and
more of them too weak to rise from the straw, which yet
hath not kept their bones from bruising the stony floor!
Good heart, what didst thou with them?”
“They are dead.”
“Mother of God! Didst thou kill them?” Cortes
griped the shoulder until Olmedo groaned. “Didst thou
kill them?”
The father shook himself loose, saying, “There is no
blood on my hands. The Holy Mother came to my help;
and this was the way. Remembrance of the love of
Christ forbade the leaving one Christian behind; but the
heathen born had no such appeal; they must be left, —
necessity said so. I could not kill them. By priestly
office, I could prepare them for death; and so I went from
man to man with holy formula and sacramental wafer. The
caciques were with me the while, and when I had concluded,
they spoke some words to the sufferers: then I saw
what never Christian saw before. Hardly wilt thou believe
me, but, Señor, I beheld the poor wretches, with smiles, bare
their breasts, and the chiefs begin and thrust their javelins
into the hearts of all there lying.”
An exclamation of horror burst from Cortes, —
“'T was murder, murder! What didst thou?
Olmedo replied quickly, “Trust me, my son, I rushed
in, and stayed the work until the victims themselves prayed
the chiefs to go on. Not even then did I give over my efforts,
— not until they made me understand the purpose of
the butchery.”
“And that? Haste thee, father. What thou tellest
will stagger Christendom!”
Again Cortes caught the priest's shoulder.
“Nay,” said the latter, shrinking back, “thy hand is
hard enough without its glove of steel.”
“Pardon, father; but, —”
“In good time, my son, in good time! What, but for
thy impatience, I would have said ere this is, that the object
was to save the honor of the tribe, and, by killing the unfortunates,
rescue them from the gods of their enemy. Accordingly,
the bands who are first to enter the palace to-night
or to-morrow will find treasure, — much treasure as thou
knowest, — but not one victim.”
The father spoke solemnly, for in the circumstance there
was a strain of pious exaltation that found an echo in his
own devoted nature; greatly was he shocked to hear Cortes
laugh.
“Valgame Dios!” he cried, crossing himself; “the man
blasphemes!”
“Blasphemes, saidst thou?” and Cortes checked himself.
“May the saints forget me forever, if I laughed at the
tragedy thou wert telling! I laughed at thy simplicity,
father.”
“Is this a time for jesting?” asked Olmedo.
“Good father,” said Cortes, gravely, “the bands that take
the palace to-night or to-morrow will find no treasure, —
not enough to buy a Christmas ribbon for a country girl.
Look now. I went to the treasure-room a little while before
coming here, and there I found the varlets of Narvaez
sacks and pouches belted to their waists and shoulders, and
were filling them to bursting. Possibly some gold-dust
spilled on the floor may remain for those who succeed us;
but nothing more. Pray thou, good priest, good friend,
pray thou that the treasure be not found in the road we
travel to-night.”
A body of men crossing the court-yard attracted Cortes;
then four horsemen approached, and stopped before him.
“Is it thou, Sandoval?” he asked.
“Yes, Señor.”
“And Ordas, Lugo, and Tapia?”
“Here,” they replied.
“And thy following, Sandoval?”
“The cavaliers of Narvaez whom thou gavest me, one
hundred chosen soldiers, and the Tlascalans to the number
thou didst order.”
“Bien! Lead out of the gate, and halt after making what
thou deemest room for the other divisions. Christ and St.
James go with thee!”
“Amen!” responded Olmedo.
And so the vanguard passed him, — a long succession of
shadowy files that he heard rather than saw. Hardly were
they gone when another body approached, led by an officer
on foot.
“Who art thou?” asked Cortes.
“Magarino,” the man replied.
“Whom have you?”
“One hundred and fifty Christians, and four hundred
Tlascalans.”
“And the bridge?”
“We have it here.”
“As thou lovest life and honor, captain, heed well thine
orders. Move on, and join thyself to Sandoval.”
The bridge spoken of was a portable platform of hewn
plank bolted to a frame of stout timbers, designed to pass the
column over the three canals intersecting the causeway to
Tlacopan, which, in the sally of the afternoon, had been
found to be bridgeless. If the canals were deep as had
been reported, well might Magarino be charged with particular
care!
In the order of march next came the centre or main body,
Cortes' immediate command. The baggage was in their
charge, also the greater part of the artillery, making of itself a
long train, and one of vast interest; for, though in the midst
of a confession of failure, the leader did not abate his intention
of conquest, — such was a peculiarity of his genius.
“Mexia, Avila, good gentlemen,” he said, halting the
royal treasurers, “let me assure myself of what beyond peradventure
ye are assured.”
And he counted the horses and men bearing away the
golden dividend of the emperor, knowing if what they had
in keeping were safely lodged in the royal depositaries, there
was nothing which might not be condoned, — not usurpation,
defeat even. Most literally, they bore his fortune.
A moment after there came upon him a procession of
motley composition: disabled Christians; servants, mostly
females, carrying the trifles they most affected, — here a
bundle of wearing apparel, there a cage with a bird; prisoners,
amongst others the prince Cacama, heart-broken by his
misfortunes; women of importance and rank, comfortably
housed in curtained palanquins. So went Marina, her slaves
side by side with those of Nenetzin, in whose mind the
fears, sorrows, and emotions of the thousands setting out in
the march had no place, for Alvarado had wrapped her in
his cloak, and lifted her into the carriage, and left a kiss on
her lips, with a promise of oversight and protection.
As if to make good the promise, almost on the heels of
the happy chance which made the place of the lover that
of duty also. Behind him, well apportioned of Christians
and Tlascalans and much the largest of the divisions, moved
the rear-guard, of which he and Leon were chiefs. His
bay mare, Bradamante, however, seemed not to share his
gayety, but tossed her head, and champed the bit, and
frequently shied as if scared.
“Have done, my pretty girl!” he said to her. “Frightened,
art thou? 'T is only the wind, ugly enough, I trow,
but nothing worse. Or art thou jealous? Verguenza! To-morrow
she shall find thee in the green pasture, and kiss
thee as I will her.”
“Ola, captain!” said Cortes, approaching him. “To
whom speakest thou?”
“To my mistress, Bradamante, Señor,” he replied, checking
the rein impatiently. “Sometimes she hath airs prettier,
as thou knowest, than the prettinesses of a woman; but now,
— So ho, girl! — now she — Have done, I say! — now she
hath a devil. And where she got it I know not, unless
from the knave Botello.”[5]
“What of him? Where is he?” asked Cortes, with sudden
interest.
“Back with Leon, talking, as is his wont, about certain
subtleties, nameless by good Christians, but which he nevertheless
calleth prophecies.”
“What saith the man now?”
“Out of the mass of his follies, I remember three: that
thou, Señor, from extreme misfortune, shalt at last attain
great honor; that to-night hundreds of us will be lost, —
which last I can forgive in him, if only his third prediction
come true.”
“And that?”
“Nay, Señor, except as serving to show that the rogue
hath in him a savor of uncommon fairness, it is the least
important of all; he saith he himself will be amongst the
lost.”
Then Cortes laughed, saying, “Wilt thou never be done
with thy quips? Lead on. I will wait here a little
longer.”
Alvarado vanished, being in haste to recover his place
behind Nenetzin. Before Cortes then, with the echoless
tread of panthers in the glade, hurried the long array of
Tlascalans; after them, the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers,
their implements clashing against their heavy armor; yet he
stood silent, pondering the words of Botello. Not until, with
wheels grinding and shaking the pavement, the guns reached
him did he wake from his thinking.
“Ho, Mesa, well met!” he said to the veteran, whom
he distinguished amid a troop of slaves dragging the first
piece. “This is not a night like those in Italy where thou
didst learn the cunning of thy craft; yet there might be
worse for us.”
“Mira, Señor!” and Mesa went to him, and said in a
low voice, “What thou saidst was cheerily spoken, that I
might borrow encouragement; and I thank thee, for I have
much need of all the comfort thou hast to give. A poor return
have I, Señor. If the infidels attack us, rely not upon
the guns, not even mine: if the wind did not whisk the
priming away, the rain would drown it, — and then,” — his
voice sunk to a whisper; “our matches will not burn!”
At that moment a gust dashed Cortes with water, and for
the first time he was chilled, — chilled until his teeth chattered;
for simultaneously a presentiment of calamity touched
him with what in a man less brave would have been fear.
He saw how, without the guns, Botello's second prediction
was possible! Nevertheless, he replied, —
“The saints can help their own in the dark as well
as in the light. Do thy best. To-morrow thou shalt be
captain.”
Then Cortes mounted his horse, and took his shield, and
to his wrist chained his battle-axe: still he waited. A
company of horsemen brushed past him, followed by a
solitary rider.
“Leon!” said Cortes.
The cavalier stopped, and replied, —
“What wouldst thou, Señor?”
“Are the guards withdrawn?”
“All of them.”
“And the sentinels?”
“I have been to every post; not a man is left.”
Cortes spoke to his attendants and they, too, rode off;
when they were gone he said to Leon, —
“Now we may go.”
And with that together they passed out into the street.
Cortes turned, and looked toward the palace, now deserted;
but the night seemed to have snatched the pile away, and
in its place left a blackened void. Fugitive as he was,
riding he knew not to what end, he settled in his saddle
again with a sigh — not for the old house itself, nor for the
comfort of its roof, nor for the refuge in time of danger; not
for the Christian dead reposing in its gardens, their valor
wasted and their graves abandoned, nor for that other
victim there sacrificed in his cause, whose weaknesses might
not be separated from a thousand services, and a royalty
superbly Eastern: these were things to wake the emotions
of youths and maidens, young in the world, and of poets,
dreamy and simple-minded; he sighed for the power he had
there enjoyed, — the weeks and months when his word was
law for an empire of shadowy vastness, and he was master,
in fact, of a king of kings, — immeasurable power now lost,
apparently forever.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE PURSUIT BEGINS.
IN the afternoon the king Cuitlahua, whose sickness had
greatly increased, caused himself to be taken to Chapultepec,
where he judged he would be safer from the enemy
and better situated for treatment by his doctors and nurses.
Before leaving, however, he appointed a deputation of ancients,
and sent them, with his signet and a message, to
Guatamozin.
The 'tzin, about the same time, changed his quarters
from the teocallis, now but a bare pavement high in air,
to the old Cû of Quetzal'. That the strangers must shortly
attempt to leave the city he knew; so giving up the assault
on the palace, he took measures to destroy them, if possible,
while in retreat. The road they would move by
was the only point in the connection about which he was
undecided. Anyhow, they must seek the land by one of
the causeways. Those by Tlacopan and Tepejaca were
the shortest; therefore, he believed one or the other of
them would be selected. Upon that theory, he accommodated
all his preparations to an attack from the lake, while
the foe were outstretched on the narrow dike. As sufficient
obstructions in their front, he relied upon the bridgeless
canals; their rear he would himself assail with a force
chosen from the matchless children of the capital, whose
native valor was terribly inflamed by the ruin and suffering
they had seen and endured. The old Cû was well located
for his part of the operation; and there, in the sanctuary,
surrounded by a throng of armed caciques and lords, the
deputies of the king Cuitlahua found him.
If the shade of Mualox lingered about the altar of the
peaceful god, no doubt it thrilled to see the profanation of
the holy place; if it sought refuge in the cells below, alas!
they were filled by an army in concealment; and if it went
further, down to what the paba, in his poetic madness, had
lovingly called his World, alas again! the birds were dead,
the shrubs withered, the angel gone; only the fountain
lived, of Darkness a sweet voice singing in the ear of
Silence.
So the 'tzin being found, this was the message delivered
to him from the king Cuitlahua: —
“May the gods love you as I do! I am sick with the
sickness of the strangers. Come not near me, lest you be
taken also. I go to Chapultepec to get ready for death.
If I die, the empire is yours. Meantime, I give you all
power.”
Guatamozin took the signet, and was once more master, if
not king, in the city of his fathers. The deputies kissed his
hand; the chiefs saluted him; and when the tidings reached
the companies below, the cells rang as never before, not
even with the hymns of their first tenants.
While yet the incense of the ovation sweetened the air
about him, he looked up at the image of the god, — web of
spider on its golden sceptre, dust on its painted shield, dust
bending its plumes of fire; he looked up into the face, yet
fair and benignant, and back to him rushed the speech of
Mualox, clear as if freshly spoken, — “Anahuac, the beautiful,
— her existence, and the glory and power that make it a
thing of worth, are linked to your action. O 'tzin, your fate
and hers, and that of the many nations, is one and the
same!” and the beating of his pulse quickened thrice; for
now he could see that the words were prophetic of his
country saved by him.
Then up the broad steps of the Cû, into the sanctuary,
from his quilted armor; and upon the floor in front of the
'tzin, with a noise like the fall of a heavy hammer, he
dropped the butt of a lance to which was affixed a Christian
sword-blade.
“At last, at last, O 'tzin!” he said, “the strangers are in
the street, marching toward Tlacopan.”
The company hushed their very breathing.
“All of them?” asked the 'tzin.
“All but the dead.”
Then on the 'tzin's lip a smile, in his eyes a flash as of flame.
“Hear you, friends?” he said. “The time of vengeance
has come. You know your places and duty. Go, each one.
May the gods go with you!”
In a moment he and Hualpa were alone. The latter bent
his head, and crossing his hands upon his breast said, —
“When the burthen of my griefs has been greatest, and
I cried out continually, O 'tzin, you have held me back,
promising that my time would come. I doubt not your better
judgment, but — but I have no more patience. My
enemy is abroad, and she, whom I cannot forget, goes with
him. Is not the time come?”
Guatamozin laid his hand on Hualpa's: —
“Be glad, O comrade! The time has come; and as
you have prepared for it like a warrior, go now, and get the
revenge so long delayed. I give you more than permission,
— I give you my prayers. Where are the people who are to
go with you?”
“In the canoes, waiting.”
They were silent awhile. Then the 'tzin took the lance,
and looked at the long, straight blade admiringly; under its
blue gleam lay the secret of its composition, by which the
few were able to mock the many, and ravage the capital and
country.
“Dread nothing; it will conquer,” he said, handing the
weapon back.
Hualpa kissed his hand, and replied, “I thought to
make return for your preferments, O 'tzin, by serving you
well when you were king; but the service need not be put
off so long. I thank the gods for this night's opportunity.
If I come not with the rising of the sun to-morrow,
Nenetzin can tell you my story. Farewell!”
With his face to his benefactor, he moved away.
“Have a care for yourself!” said the 'tzin, regarding him
earnestly; “and remember there must be no sign of attack
until the strangers have advanced to the first causeway. I
will look for you to-morrow. Farewell!”
While yet the 'tzin's thoughts went out compassionately
after his unhappy friend, up from their irksome hiding in the
cells came the companies he was to lead, — a long array in
white tunics of quilted cotton. At their head, the uniform
covering a Christian cuirass, and with Christian helm and
battle-axe, he marched; and so, through the darkness and
the storm, the pursuit began.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
LA NOCHE TRISTE.
THE movement of the fugitive army was necessarily
slow. Stretched out in the street, it formed a column
of irregular front and great depth. A considerable portion
was of non-combatants, such as the sick and wounded,
the servants, women, and prisoners; to whom might be
added the Indians carrying the baggage and ammunition, and
beaten into the faces of the sufferers by the wind, made the
keeping order impossible; at each step the intervals between
individuals and between the divisions grew wider and
wider. After crossing two or three of the bridges, a general
confusion began to prevail; the officers, in dread of the enemy,
failed to call out, and the soldiers, bending low to protect their
faces, and hugging their arms or their treasure, marched in
dogged silence, indifferent to all but themselves. Soon what
was at first a fair column in close order became an irregular
procession; here a crowd of all the arms mixed, there a
thin line of stragglers.
It is a simple thing, I know, yet nothing has so much to
do with what we habitually call our spirits as the condition
in which we are at the time. Under an open sky, with the
breath of a glowing morning in our nostrils, we sing,
laugh, and are brave; but let the cloud hide the blue expanse
and cover our walk with shadow, and we shrink
within ourselves; or worse, let the walk be in the night,
through a strange place, with rain and cold added, and
straightway the fine thing we call courage merges itself into
a sense of duty or sinks into humbler concern for comfort
and safety. So, not a man in all the column, — not a cavalier,
not a slave, — but felt himself oppressed by the circumstances
of the situation; those who, only that afternoon, had
charged like lions along that very street now yielded to the
indefinable effect, and were weak of heart even to timidity.
The imagination took hold of most of them, especially of
the humbler class, and, lining the way with terrors all its
own, reduced them to the state when panic rushes in to
complete what fear begins. They started at the soughing of
the wind; drew to strike each other; cursed the rattle of
their arms, the hoof-beats of the horses, the rumble of the
carriage-wheels; on the houses, vaguely defined against the
the intersecting streets heard the infidel legions rushing upon
them; very frequently they stumbled over corpses yet cumbering
the way after the day's fight, and then they whispered
the names of saints, and crossed themselves: the dead, always
suggestive of death, were never so much so to them.
And so, for many squares, across canals, past palaces and
temples, they marched, and nothing to indicate an enemy;
the city seemed deserted.
“Hist, Señor!” said Duero, speaking with bated breath.
“Hast thou not heard of the army of unbelievers that, in
the night, while resting in their camp, were by a breath put
to final sleep? Verily, the same good angel of the Lord hath
been here also.”
“Nay, compadre mio,” replied Cortes, bending in his saddle,
“I cannot so persuade myself. If the infidels meant
to let us go, the going would not be so peaceful. From
some house-top we should have had their barbarous farewell,
— a stone, a lance, an arrow, at least a curse. By many
signs, — for that matter, by the rain which, driven through
the visor bars, is finding its way down the doublet under my
breastplate, — by many signs, I know we are in the midst of
a storm. Good Mother forfend, lest, bad as it is, it presage
something worse!”
At that moment a watcher on the azoteas of a temple near
by chanted the hour of midnight.
“Didst hear?” asked Cortes. “They are not asleep!
Olmedo! father! Where art thou?”
“What wouldst thou, my son?”
“That thou shouldst not get lost in this Tophet; more
especially, that thou shouldst keep to thy prayers.”
And about that time Sandoval, at the head of his advanced
guard, rode from the street out on the open causeway.
Farther on, but at no great distance, he came to the
forward, he heard from the lake to his right the peal long
and loud of a conch-shell. His heart, in battle steadfast
as a rock, throbbed faster; and with raised shield and close-griped
sword, he listened, as did all with him, while other
shells took up and carried the blast back to the city, and far
out over the lake.
In the long array none failed to interpret the sound aright;
all recognized a signal of attack, and halted, the slave by
his prolong, the knight on his horse, each one as the moment
found him. They said not a word, but listened; and as they
heard the peal multiply countlessly in every direction, — now
close by, now far off, — surprise, the first emotion, turned to
dismay. Flight, — darkness, — storm, — and now the infidels!
“May God have mercy on us!” murmured the
brave, making ready to fight. “May God have mercy on
us!” echoed the timid, ready to fly.
The play of the wind upon the lake seemed somewhat
neutralized by the density of the rain; still the waves
splashed lustily against the grass-grown sides of the causeway;
and while Sandoval was wondering if there were
many, who, in frail canoes, would venture upon the waste at
such a time, another sound, heard, as it were, under that of
the conchs, yet too strong to be confounded with wind or
surging water, challenged his attention; then he was assured.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “get ye ready; they are
coming. Pass the word, and ride one to Magarino, —
speed to him, speed him here! His bridge laid now were
worth a hundred lives!”
As the yells of the infidels — or, rather, their yell, for the
many voices rolled over the water in one great volume —
grew clearer their design became manifest.
Cortes touched Olmedo: —
“Dost thou remember the brigantines?”
“What of them?”
“Only, father, that what will happen to-night would not
if they were afloat. Now shall we pay the penalty of their
loss. Ay de mi!” Then he said aloud to the cavaliers,
Morla, Olid, Avila, and others. “By my conscience, a dark
day for us was that in which the lake went back to the
heathen, — brewer, it, of this darker night! An end of
loitering! Bid the trumpeters blow the advance! One
ride forward to hasten Magarino; another to the rear that
the division may be closed up. No space for the dogs to
land from their canoes. Hearken!”
The report of a gun, apparently back in the city, reached
them.
“They are attacking the rear-guard! Mesa spoke then.
On the right hear them, and on the left! Mother of God,
if our people stand not firm now, better prayers for our
souls than fighting for our lives!”
A stone then struck Avila, startling the group with its
clang upon his armor.
“A slinger!” cried Cortes. “On the right here, — can
ye see him?”
They looked that way, but saw nothing. Then the sense
of helplessness in exposure smote them, and, knightly as
they were, they also felt the common fear.
“Make way! Room, room!” shouted Magarino, rushing
to the front, through the advance-guard. His Tlascalans
were many and stout; to swim the canal, — with ropes
to draw the bridge after them, — to plant it across the
chasm, were things achieved in a moment.
“Well done, Magarino! Forward, gentlemen, — forward
all!” so saying, Sandoval spurred across; after him, in reckless
haste, his whole division rushed. The platform, quivering
throughout, was stancher than the stone revetments
upon which its ends were planted; calcined by fire, they
that the floor was giving way under them, yelled with terror,
and in their frantic struggle to escape toppled some of
them into the canal. None paused to look after the unfortunates;
for the shouting of the infidels, which had been
coming nearer and nearer, now rose close at hand, muffling
the thunder of the horses plunging on the sinking bridge.
Moreover, stones and arrows began to fall in that quarter
with effect, quickening the hurry to get away.
Cortes reached the bridge at the same time the infidels
reached the causeway. He called to Magarino; before the
good captain could answer, the waves to the right hand
became luminous with the plashing of countless paddles, and
a fleet of canoes burst out of the darkness. Up rose the
crews, ghost-like in their white armor, and showered the
Christians with missiles. A cry of terror, — a rush, — and
the cavaliers were pushed on the bridge, which they jammed
deeper in the rocks. Some horses, wild with fright, leaped
into the lake, and, iron-clad, like their riders, were seen no
more.
On the further side, Cortes wheeled about, and shouted
to his friends. Olmedo answered, so did Morla; then they
were swept onward.
Alone, and in peril of being forced down the side of the
dike, Cortes held his horse to the place. The occasional boom
of guns, a straggling fire of small arms, and the unintermitted
cries of the infidels, in tone exultant and merciless, assured him
that the attack was the same everywhere down the column.
One look he gave the scene near by, — on the bridge, a mass
of men struggling, cursing, praying; wretches falling, their
shrieks shrill with despair; the lake whitening with assailants!
He shuddered, and called on the saints; then the
instinct of the soldier prevailed: —
“Ola, comrades!” he cried. “It is nothing. Stand, if
Holy Cross! Christo y Santiago!”
He spurred into the thick of the throng. In vain: the
current was too strong; the good steed seconded him with
hoof and frontlet; now he prayed, now cursed; at last
he yielded, seeing that on the other side of the bridge was
Fear, on his side Panic.
When the signal I have described, borne from the lake to
the city, began to resound from temple to temple, the rear-guard
were yet many squares from the causeway, and had,
for the most part, become merely a procession of drenched
and cowering stragglers. The sound alarmed them; and
divining its meaning, they assembled in accidental groups,
and so hurried forward.
Nenetzin and Marina, yet in company, were also startled
by the noisy shells. The latter stayed not to question or
argue; at her word, sharply spoken, her slaves followed fast
after the central division, and rested not until they had
gained a place well in advance of the non-combatants, whose
slow and toilsome progress she had shrewdly dreaded. Not
so Nenetzin: the alarm proceeded from her countrymen;
feared she, therefore, for her lover; and when, vigilant as
he was gallant, he rode to her, and kissed her hand, and spoke
to her in lover's phrase, she laughed, though not understanding
a word, and bade her slaves stay with him.
Last man in the column was Leon, brave gentleman,
good captain. With his horsemen, he closed upon the
artillery.
“Friend,” he said to Mesa, “the devil is in the night.
As thou art familiar with wars as Father Olmedo with mass,
how readest thou the noise we hear?”
The veteran, walking at the moment between two of his
guns, replied, —
“Interpret we each for himself, Señor. I am ready to
fight. See!”
And drawing his cloak aside, he showed the ruddy spark
of a lighted match.
“As thou seest, I am ready; yet” — and he lowered his
voice — “I shame not to confess that I wish we were well
out of this.”
“Good soldier art thou!” said Leon. “I will stay with
thee. A la Madre todos!”
The exclamation had scarcely passed his lips when to their
left and front the darkness became peopled with men in
white, rushing upon them, and shouting, “Up, up, Tlateloco!
O, O luilones, luilones!”[6]
“Turn thy guns quickly, Mesa, or we are lost!” cried
Leon; and to his comrades, “Swords and axes! Upon them,
gentlemen! Santiago, Santiago!”
The veteran as promptly resolved himself into action. A
word to his men, — then he caught a wheel with one hand,
and swung the carriage round, and applied the match.
The gun failed fire, but up sprang a hissing flame, and in
its lurid light out came all the scene about: the infidels
pouring into the street, the Tlascalans and many Spaniards
in flight, Leon charging almost alone, and right amongst
the guns a fighting man, — by his armor, half pagan, half
Christian, — all this Mesa saw, and more, — that the
slaves had abandoned the ropes, and that of the gunners the
few who stood their ground were struggling for life hand to
hand; still more, that the gun he was standing by looked
point-blank into the densest ranks of the foe. Never word
spoke he; repriming the piece, he applied the match again.
The report shook the earth, and was heard and recognized by
Cortes out on the causeway; but it was the veteran's last
shot. To his side sprang the 'tzin: in his ear a war-cry,
on his morion a blow, and under the gun he died. When
Duty loses a good servant Honor gains a hero.
The fight — or, rather, the struggle of the few against the
many — went on. The 'tzin led his people boldly, and they
failed him not. Leon drew together all he could of Christians
and Tlascalans; then, as game to be taken at leisure,
his enemy left him. Soon the fugitives following Alvarado
heard a strange cry coming swiftly after them, “O, O luilones!
O luilones!”
And through the rain and the night, doubly dark in the
canals, Hualpa sped to the open lake, followed by nine
canoes, fashioned for speed, each driven by six oarsmen, and
carrying four warriors; so there were with him nine and
thirty chosen men, with linked mail under their white tunics,
and swords of steel on their long lances, — arms and armor
of the Christians.
Off the causeway, beyond the first canal, he waited, until
the great flotillas, answering his signal, closed in on the right
hand and left; then he started for the canal, chafing at the
delay of his vessels.
“Faster, faster, my men!” he said aloud; then to himself,
“Now will I wrest her from the robber, and after that
she will give me her love again. O happy, happy hour!”
He sought the canal, thinking, doubtless, that the Christians
would find it impassable, and that in their front, as the
place of safety, they would most certainly place Nenetzin.
There, into the press he drove.
“Not here! Back, my men!” he shouted.
The chasm was bridged.
And marvelling at the skill of the strangers, which overcame
difficulties as by magic, and trembling lest they should
escape and his love be lost to him after all, he turned his
canoe, — if possible, to be the first at the next canal. Others
of his people were going in the same direction, but he outstript
them.
“Faster, faster!” he cried; and the paddles threshed the
Into the causeway he bent, so close as to hear the tramp of
horses; sometimes shading his eyes against the rain, and
looking up, he saw the fugitives, black against the clouds, —
strangers and Tlascalans, — plumes of men, but never scarf
of woman.
Very soon the people on the causeway heard his call to
the boatmen, and the plash of the paddles, and they quickened
their pace.
“Adelante! adelante!” cried Sandoval, and forward
dashed the cavaliers.
“O my men, land us at the canal before the strangers
come up, and in my palace at ease you shall eat and drink
all your lives! Faster, faster!”
So Hualpa urged his rowers, and in their sinewy hands
the oaken blades bent like bows.
Behind dropped the footmen, — even the Tlascalans; and
weak from hunger and wounds, behind dropped some of the
horses. Shook the causeway, foamed the water. A hundred
yards, — and the coursers of the lake were swift as the
coursers of the land; half a mile, — and the appeal of the infidel
and the cheering cry of the Christian went down the
wind on the same gale. At last, as Hualpa leaped from his
boat, Sandoval checked his horse, — both at the canal.
Up the dike the infidels clambered to the attack. And
there was clang of swords and axes, and rearing and plunging
of steeds; then the voice of the good captain, —
“God's curse upon them! They have our shields!”
A horse, pierced to the heart, leaped blindly down the
bank, and from the water rose the rider's imploration:
“Help, help, comrades! For the love of Christ, help! I
am drowning!”
Again Sandoval, —
“Cuidado, — beware! They have our swords on their
“Stand fast! Unless we hold the canal for Magarino, all is
lost! Upon them! Santiago, Santiago!”
A rally and a charge! The sword-blades did their work
well; horses, wounded to death or dead, began to cumber the
causeway, and the groans and prayers of their masters caught
under them were horrible to hear. Once, with laughter and
taunting jests, the infidels retreated down the slope; and
once, some of them, close pressed, leaped into the canal.
The lake received them kindly; with all their harness
on they swam ashore. Never was Sandoval so distressed.
Meantime, the footmen began to come up; and as they
were intolerably galled by the enemy, who sometimes landed
and engaged them hand to hand, they clamored for those
in front to move on. “Magarino! The bridge, the
bridge! Forward!” With such cries, they pressed upon
the horsemen, and reduced the space left them for action.
At length Sandoval shouted, —
“Ola, all who can swim! Follow me!
And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water.
Many were bold enough to follow; and though some were
drowned, the greater part made the passage safely. Then
the cowering, shivering mass left behind without a leader,
became an easy prey; and steadily, pitilessly, silently,
Hualpa and his people fought, — silently, for all the time he
was listening for a woman's voice, the voice of his beloved.
And now, fast riding, Cortes came to the second canal,
with some cavaliers whom he rallied on the way; behind
him, as if in pursuit, so madly did they run, followed all of
the central division who succeeded in passing the bridge.
The sick and wounded, the prisoners, even king Cacama
and the women, abandoned by their escort, were slain and
captured, — all save Marina, rescued by some Tlascalans,
and a Spanish Amazon, who defended herself with sword
and shield.
At points along the line of flight the infidels intercepted
the fugitives. Many terrible combats ensued. When the
Christians kept in groups, as did most of the veterans, they
generally beat off the assailants. The loss fell chiefly upon
the Tlascalans, the cross-bowmen, and arquebusiers, whose
arms the rain had ruined, and the recruits of Narvaez, who,
weighted down by their treasure and overcome by fear, ran
blindly along, and fell almost without resistance.
One great effort Cortes made at the canal to restore
order before the mob could come up.
“God help us!” he cried at last to the gentlemen with
him. “Here are bowmen and gunners without arms, and
horsemen without room to charge. Nothing now but to save
ourselves! And that we may not do, if we wait. Let us
follow Sandoval. Hearken to the howling! How fast they
come! And by my conscience, with them they bring the
lake alive with fiends! Olmedo, thou with me! Come,
Morla, Avila, Olid! Come, all who care for life!”
And through the mêleé they pushed, through the murderous
lancers, down the bank, — Cortes first, and good
knights on the right and left of the father. There was
plunging and floundering of horses, and yells of infidels, and
the sound of deadly blows, and from the swimmers shrieks
for help, now to comrades, now to saints, now to Christ.
“Ho, Sandoval, right glad am I to find thee!” said
Cortes, on the further side of the canal. “Why waitest
thou?”
“For the coming of the bridge, Señor.”
“Bastante! Take what thou hast, and gallop to the next
canal. I will do thy part here.”
And dripping from the plunge in the lake, chilled by the
calamity more than by the chill wind, and careless of the
stones and arrows that hurtled about him, he faced the fight,
and waited, saying simply, — “O good Mother, hasten
Magarino!”
Never prayer more hearty, never prayer more needed!
For the central division had passed, and Alvarado had come
and gone, and down the causeway to the city no voice of
Christian was to be heard; at hand, only the infidels with
their melancholy cry, of unknown import, “O, O luilones!
O, O luilones!” Then Magarino summoned his Tlascalans
and Christians to raise the bridge. How many of them had
died the death of the faithful, how many had basely fled, he
knew not; the darkness covered the glory as well as the
shame. To work he went. And what sickness of the spirit,
what agony ineffable seized him! The platform was too
fast fixed in the rocks to be moved! Awhile he fought,
awhile toiled, awhile prayed; all without avail. In his
ears lingered the parting words of Cortes, and he stayed
though his hope was gone. Every moment added to the
dead and wounded around him, yet he stayed. He was
the dependence of the army: how could he leave the
bridge? His men deserted him; at last he was almost
alone; before him was a warrior whose shield when struck
gave back the ring of iron, and whose blows came with the
weight of iron; while around closer and closer circled the
white uniforms of the infidels; then he cried, —
“God's curse upon the bridge! What mortals can, my
men, we have done to save it; enough now, if we save ourselves!”
And drawn by the great law, supreme in times of such
peril, they came together, and retired across the bridge.
Then rose the cry, “Todo es perdido! All is lost! The
bridge cannot be raised!” And along the causeway from
mouth to mouth the warning flew, of such dolorous effect
as not merely to unman all who heard it, but to take from
them the instincts to which life so painfully intrusts itself
when there is no judgment left. Those defending themselves
quitted fighting, and turned to fly; except the gold,
that impeded them, even the arquebuses, so precious
in Cortes' eyes; guns dragged safely so far were rolled into
the lake or left on the road; the horses caught the contagion,
and, becoming unmanageable, ran madly upon the
footmen.
When the cry, outflying the fugitives with whom it began,
reached the thousands at the second canal, it had somewhere
borrowed a phrase yet more demoralizing. “The bridge
cannot be raised! All is lost! Save yourselves, save yourselves!”
Such was its form there. And about that time, as
ill-fortune ordered, the infidels had gathered around the fatal
place until, by their yells and missiles there seemed to be
myriads of them. Along the causeway their canoes lay
wedged in, like a great raft; and bolder grown, they flung
themselves bodily on the unfortunates, and strove to carry
them off alive. Enough if they dragged them down the
slope, — innumerable hands were ready at the water's edge to
take them speedily beyond rescue. Momentarily, also, the
yell of the fighting men of Tenochtitlan, surging from the
city under the 'tzin, drew nearer and nearer, driving the
rear upon the front, already on the verge of the canal
with barely room for defense against Hualpa and his
people. All that held the sufferers passive, all that gave
them endurance, the virtue rarer and greater than patience,
was the hope of the coming of Magarino; and the announcement,
at last, that the bridge could not be raised,
was as the voice of doom over their heads. Instantly,
they saw death behind them, and life nowhere but forward,
— so always with panic. An impulse moved them,
— they rushed on, they pushed each with the might
of despair. “Save yourselves, save yourselves!” they
screamed, at the same time no one thought of any but
himself.
To make the scene clear to the reader, he should remember
that the causeway was but eight yards across its
superior slope; while the canal, about as wide, and crossing
at right angles, was on both sides walled with dressed masonry
to the height, probably, of twelve feet, with water at
least deep enough to drown a horse. Ordinarily, the peril
of the passage would have been scorned by a stout swimmer;
but, alas! such were not all who must make the attempt
now.
The first victims of the movement I have described were
those in the front fighting Hualpa. No time for preparation:
with shields on their arms, if footmen, on their horses, if
riders, — a struggle on the verge, a cry for pity, a despairing
shriek, and into the yawning chasm they were plunged; nor
had the water time to close above their heads before as
many others were dashed in upon them.
Cortes, on the further side, could only hear what took
place in the canal, for the darkness hid it from view; yet
he knew that at his feet was a struggle for life impossible to
be imagined except as something that might happen in the
heart of the vortex left by a ship foundering at sea. The
screams, groans, prayers, and execrations of men; the neighing,
snorting, and plunging of horses; the bubbling, hissing,
and plashing of water; the writhing and fighting, —
a wretch a moment risen, in a moment gone, his death-cry
half uttered; the rolling of the mass, or rather its impulsion
onward, which, horrible to think, might be the fast
filling up of the passage; now and then a piteous appeal for
help under the wall, reached at last (and by what mighty
exertion!) only to mock the hopes of the swimmers, — all this
Cortes heard, and more. No need of light to make the
scene visible; no need to see the dying and the drowning,
or the last look of eyes fixed upon him as they went down,
a look as likely to be a curse as a prayer! If never before or
horse he fled the place, shouting as he went, —
“Todo es perdido! all is lost! Save yourselves, save
yourselves!”
And in his absence the horror continued, — continued
until the canal from side to side was filled with the bodies
of men and horses, blent with arms and ensigns, baggage,
and guns, and gun-carriages, and munitions in boxes and
carts, — the rich plunder of the empire, royal fifth as well as
humbler dividend, — and all the paraphernalia of armies,
infidel and Christian; filled, until most of those who escaped
clambered over the warm and writhing heap of what
had so lately been friends and comrades. And the gods of
the heathen were not forgotten by their children; for sufferers
there were who, snatching at hands offered in help,
were dragged into canoes, and never heard of more. Tears
and prayers and the saving grace of the Holy Mother and
Son for them! Better death in the canal, however dreadful,
than death in the temples, — for the soul's rest, better!
Slowly along the causeway, meantime, Alvarado toiled
with the rear-guard. Very early he had given up Leon
and Mesa, and all with them, as lost. And to say truth,
little time had he to think of them; for now, indeed, he
found the duties of lover and soldier difficult as they had
been pleasant. Gay of spirit, boastful but not less generous
and brave, skilful and reckless, he was of the kind to attract
and dazzle the adventurers with whom he had cast his lot;
and now they were ready to do his bidding, and equally
ready to share his fate, life or death. Of them he constituted
a body-guard for Nenetzin. Rough riders were they,
yet around her they formed, more careful of her than
themselves; against them rattled and rang the stones and
arrows; against them dashed the infidels landed from their
canoes; sometimes a cry announced a hurt, sometimes a fall
reached the curtained carriage in which rode the little
princess.
Nor can it be said that Alvarado, so careful as lover, failed
his duty as captain. Sometimes at the rear, facing the 'tzin;
sometimes, with a laugh or a kiss of the hand, by the
palanquin; and always his cry, blasphemous yet cheerful,
“Viva á Christo! Viva Santa Cruz! Santiago, Santiago!”
So from mistress and men he kept off the evil bird Fear.
The stout mare Bradamante gave him most concern; she
obeyed willingly, — indeed, seemed better when in action;
yet was restless and uneasy, and tossed her head, and — unpardonable
as a habit in the horse of a soldier — cried for
company.
“So-a, girl!” he would say, as never doubting that she
understood him. “What seest thou that I do not? or is
it what thou hearest? Fear! If one did but say to me that
thou wert cowardly, better for him that he spoke ill of my
mother! But here they come again! Upon them now!
Upon them, sweetheart! Viva á Christo! Viva la Santa
Cruz!”
And so, fighting, he crossed the bridge; and still all went
well with him. Out of the way he chased the foe; on the
flanks they were beaten off; only at the rear were they
troublesome, for there the 'tzin led the pursuit.
Finally, the rear-guard closed upon the central division,
which, having reached the second canal, stood, in what condition
we have seen, waiting for Magarino. Then Alvarado
hurried to the palanquin; and while there, now checking
Bradamante, whose uneasiness seemed to increase as they
advanced, now cheering Nenetzin, he heard the fatal cry
proclaiming the loss of the bridge. On his lips the jest
faded, in his heart the blood stood still. A hundred voices
took up the cry, and there was hurry and alarm around him,
forward. The warning was not lost: —
“Ola, my friends!” he said, at once aroused, “Hell's
door of brass hath been opened, and the devils are loose!
Keep we together —”
As he spoke the pressure strengthened, and the crowd
yelled “Todo es perdido! Save yourselves!”
Up went his visor, out rang his voice in fierce appeal, —
“Together let us bide, gentlemen. We are Spaniards, and
in our saddles, with swords and shields. The foe are the
dogs who have bayed us so to their cost for days and weeks.
On the right and left, as ye are! Remember, the woman we
have here is a Christian; she hath broken the bread and
drunken the wine; her God is our God; and if we abandon
her, may he abandon us!”
Not a rider left his place. The division went to pieces,
and rushed forward, sweeping all before it except the palanquin;
as a boat in a current, that floated on, — fierce the
current, yet placid the motion of the boat. And nestled
warm within, Nenetzin heard the tumult as something terrible
afar off.
And all the time Hualpa kept the fight by the canal.
Hours passed. The dead covered the slopes of the causeway;
on the top they lay in heaps; the canal choked with them;
still the stream of enemies poured on roaring and fighting.
Over the horrible bridge he saw some Tlascalans carry two
women, — neither of them Nenetzin. Another woman came
up and crossed, but she had sword and shield, and used
them, shrilly shouting the war-cries of the strangers. Out
towards the land the battle followed the fugitives, — beyond
the third canal even, — and everywhere victory! Surely,
the Aztecan gods had vindicated themselves; and for the
'tzin there was glory immeasurable. But where was Nenetzin?
where the hated Tonatiah? Why came they not?
visions of the laughing lips and dimpled cheeks of the loved
face out in the rain crushed by a hoof or a wheel. At other
times, when the awful chorus of the struggle swelled loudest,
he fancied he heard her voice in agony of fear and pain.
Almost he regretted not having sought her, instead of waiting
as he had.
Near morning from the causeway toward the city he heard
two cries, — “Al-a-lala!” one, “Viva á Christo!” the other.
Friend most loved, foe most hated, woman most adored!
How good the gods were to send them! His spirit rose, all
its strength returned.
Of his warriors, six were with the slain; the others he
called together, and said, —
“The 'tzin comes, and the Tonatiah. Now, O my friends, I
claim your service. But forget not, I charge you, forget not
her of whom I spoke. Harm her not. Be ready to follow me.”
He waited until the guardians of the palanquin were close
by, — until he heard their horses' tread; then he shouted,
“Now, O my countrymen! Be the 'tzin's cry our cry!
Follow me. Al-a-lala, al-a-lala!”
The rough riders faced the attack, thinking it a repetition
of others they had lightly turned aside on the way; but
when their weapons glanced from iron-faced shields, and they
recognized the thrust of steel; when their horses shrunk
from the contact or staggered with mortal hurts, and some
of them fell down dying, then they gave way to a torrent of
exclamations so seasoned with holy names that they could
be as well taken for prayers as curses. Surprised, dismayed,
retreating, — with scarce room for defence and none for
attack, still they struggled to maintain themselves. Sharp
the clangor of axes on shields, merciless the thrust of the
blades, — cry answered cry. Death to the horse, if he but
reared; to the rider death, if his horse but stumbled. Nevertheless,
palanquin. Then that which had been as a living wall
around the girl was broken. One of her slaves fell down,
struck by a stone. Her scream, though shrill with sudden
fear, was faint amid the discordances of storm and fight;
yet two of the combatants heard it, and rushed to the rescue.
And now Hualpa's hand was on the fallen carriage
— happy moment! “Viva á Christo! Santiago, Santiago!”
thundered Alvarado. The exultant infidel looked
up: right over him, hiding the leaden sky, — a dark impending
danger, — reared Bradamante. He thrust quickly,
and the blade on the lance was true; with a cry, in its
excess of agony almost human, the mare reared, fell back,
and died. As she fell, one foot, heavy with its silver shoe,
struck him to the ground; and would that were all!
“Ola, comrades!” cried Alvarado, upon his feet again, to
some horsemen dismounted like himself. “Look! the girl
is dying! Help me! as ye hope for life, stay and help
me!”
They laid hold of the mare, and rolled her away. The
morning light rested upon the place feebly, as if afraid of its
own revelations. On the causeway, in the lake, in the canal,
were many horrors to melt a heart of stone; one fixed Alvarado's
gaze, —
“Dead! she is dead!” he said, falling upon his knees,
and covering his eyes with his hands, “O mother of Christ!
What have I done that this should befall me?”
Under the palanquin, — its roof of aromatic cedar, thin as
tortoise shell, and its frame of bamboo, light as the cane of
the maize, all a heap of fragments now, — under the wreck
lay Nenetzin. About her head the blue curtains of the carriage
were wrapped in accidental folds, making the pallor of
the face more pallid; the lips so given to laughter were
dark with flowing blood; and the eyes had looked their
the head of a dead warrior, and in it shone the iron cross of
Christ. Bradamante had crushed her to death! And this,
the crowning horror of the melancholy night, was what the
good mare saw on the way that her master did not, — so the
master ever after believed.
The pain of grief was new to the good captain; while yet it
so overcame him, a man laid a hand roughly on his shoulder,
and said, —
“Look thou, Señor! She is in Paradise, while of those
who, at thy call, stayed to help thee save her but seven are
left. If not thyself, up and help us!”
The justice of the rude appeal aroused him, and he retook
his sword and shield, and joined in the fight, — eight
against the many. About them closed the lancers; facing
whom one by one the brave men died, until only Alvarado
remained. Over the clashing of arms then rang the 'tzin's
voice, —
“It is the Tonatiah! Take him, O my children, but harm
him not; his life belongs to the gods!”
Fortunately for Alvarado a swell of Christian war-cries
and the beat of galloping horses came, about the same time,
from the further side of the canal to distract the attention
of his foemen. Immediately Cortes appeared, with Sandoval,
Morla, Avila, and others, — brave gentlemen come
back from the land, which they had safely gained, to save
whom they might of the rear-guard. At the dread passage
all of them drew rein except Morla; down the slope of the dyke
he rode, and spurring into the lake, through the canoes and
floating débris, he headed to save his friend. Useless the
gallantry! The assault upon Alvarado had ceased, — with
what purpose he knew. Never should they take him alive!
Hualpa's lance, of great length, was lying at his feet. Suddenly,
casting away his sword and shield, he snatched up
the edge of the canal, and vaulted in air. Loud the cry of
the Christians, louder that of the infidels! An instant he
seemed to halt in his flight; an instant more, and his
famous feat was performed, — the chasm was cleared, and he
stood amongst his people saved.
Alas for Morla! An infidel sprang down the dike, and
by running and leaping from canoe to canoe overtook him
while in the lake.
“Sword and shield, Señor Francisco! Sword and shield!
Look! The foe is upon thee!”
So he was warned; but quick the action. First, a blow
with a Christian axe: down sank the horse; then a blow
upon the helmet, and the wave that swallowed the steed received
the rider also.
“Al-a-lala!” shouted the victor.
“The 'tzin, the 'tzin!” answered his people; and forward
they sprang, over the canoes, over the bridge of the dead, —
forward to get at their hated enemies again.
“Welcome art thou!” said Cortes to Alvarado. “Welcome
as from the grave, whither Morla — God rest his soul!
— hath gone. Where is Leon?”
“With Morla,” answered the captain.
“And Mesa?”
“Nay, Señor Hernan, if thou stayest here for any of the
rear-guard, know that I am the last of them.”
“Bastante! Hear ye, gentlemen?” said Cortes. “Our
duty is done. Let us to the land again. Here is my foot,
here my hand: mount, captain, and quickly!”
Alvarado took the seat offered behind Cortes, and the
party set out in retreat again. Closely, across the third
canal, along the causeway to the village of Popotla, the 'tzin
kept the pursuit. From the village, and from Tlacopan the
city, he drove the bleeding and bewildered fugitives. At
a fortress, they successfully defended themselves. Then the
'tzin gave over, and returned to the capital.
And his return was as the savior of his country, — the
victorious companies behind him, the great flotillas on his
right and left, and the clouds overhead rent by the sounding
of conchs and tambours and the singing and shouting of the
proud and happy people.
Fast throbbed his heart, for now he knew, if the crown
were not indeed his, its prestige and power were; and
amidst fast-coming schemes for the restoration of the empire,
he thought of the noble Tula, and then, — he halted suddenly:
—
“Where is the lord Hualpa?” he asked.
“At the second canal,” answered a cacique.
“And he is —”
“Dead!”
The proud head drooped, and the hero forgot his greatness
and his dreams; he was the loving friend again, and as such,
sorrowing and silent, repassed the second canal, and stood
upon the causeway beyond. And the people, with quick
understanding of what he sought, made way for him. Over
the wrecks of the battle, — sword and shield, helm and
breastplate, men and horses, — he walked to where the lover
and his beloved lay.
At sight of her face, more childlike and beautiful than
ever, memory brought to him the sad look, the low voice,
and the last words of Hualpa, — “If I come not with the
rising sun to-morrow, Nenetzin can tell you my story,” —
such were the words. The iron cross was yet in her hand,
and the hand yet rested on the head of a warrior lying near.
The 'tzin stooped, and turned the dead man over, and lo!
the lord Hualpa. From one to the other the princely mourner
looked; a mist, not of the lake or the cloud, rose and hid
the story.
In a canoe, side by side, the two victims were borne to the
city, never to be separated. At Chapultepec they were laid
in the same tomb; so that one day the dust of the hunter,
with that of kings, may feed the grass and color the flowers
of the royal hill.
He had found his fortune!
Here the chronicles of the learned Don Fernando abruptly
terminate. For the satisfaction of the reader, a professional
story-teller would no doubt have devoted several
pages to the careers of some of the characters whom he
leaves surviving the catastrophe. The translator is not disposed
to think his author less courteous than literators generally;
on the contrary, the books abound with evidences of
the tender regard he had for those who might chance to
occupy themselves with his pages; consequently, there must
have been a reason for the apparent neglect in question.
If the worthy gentleman were alive, and the objection
made to him in person, he would most likely have replied:
“Gentle critic, what you take for neglect was but a compliment
to your intelligence. The characters with which I
dealt were for the most part furnished me by history. The
few of my own creation were exclusively heathen, and of
them, except the lord Maxtla and Xoli, the Chalcan, disposition
is made in one part or another of the story. The
two survivors named, it is to be supposed, were submerged in
the ruin that fell upon the country after the conquest was
finally completed. The other personages being real, for perfect
satisfaction as to them, permit me, with the profoundest
respect, to refer you to your histories again.”
The translator has nothing to add to the explanation except
brief mention that the king Cuitlahua's reign lasted
but two months in all. The small-pox, which desolated the
city and valley, and contributed, more than any other cause,
to the ultimate overthrow of the empire, sent him to the tombs
of Chapultepec. Guatamozin then took the vacant throne,
and as king exemplified still further the qualities which had
made him already the idol of his people and the hero of his
race. Some time also, but whether before or after his coronation
we are not told, he married the noble Tula, — an event
which will leave the readers of the excellent Don Fernando
in doubt whether Mualox, the paba, was not more prophet
than monomaniac.
| The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins | |